


Just (a Little Less) Alone

by doodles-foodles (Forianna), Forianna



Category: Beetlejuice - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Caretaking, Cigarettes, Comfort, Conflict, Confrontation, Depression, Drug Use, Emotional Manipulation, Emotionally Repressed, Eventual rating change, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Kidnapping, Maitland and Deetz families, Manipulation, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Non-binary Reader - Freeform, Original Character(s), Other, POV Third Person Omniscient, Pining, Running Away, Slow Burn, Smoking, Smut, Substance Abuse, Supportive Maitlands, Symptoms of Depression, Will add tags as I go, bed sharing, dual perspective, lying, romantic rival, they/them pronouns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-01-23 03:38:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 46,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21313558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forianna/pseuds/doodles-foodles, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forianna/pseuds/Forianna
Summary: A Beetlejuice/Reader slowburn romance. Eventual smut. A LOT of angst. It's been a LONG time since I've written anything worth posting, so I hope what I'm posting is still fun to read. Please let me know what you think in the comments! Kudos are always appreciated! And this is unbetaed so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.Hope you enjoy!
Relationships: Beetlejuice (Beetlejuice)/Reader, Beetlejuice (Beetlejuice)/You
Comments: 301
Kudos: 440





	1. A Night Unlike Any Other

Life is wild.  
  
Maybe that was too reductive. By nature, life, in general, was untamed and unpredictable. At times your life in particular felt as wild as those cheesy TV shows about surviving in the jungle against all odds. You’d know, because they watched those shows late at night, all alone, with a can of diet soda to your left and a bag of baked chips to your right. 

Those shows blew everything out of proportion. The protagonist was always against the odds and somehow miraculously made it out of whatever harrowing situation they had fallen into. Dramatic music. Slow Motion camera panning over rushing muddy waters. A close up of a snake mid-hiss.The protagonist had been handed a death sentence and triumphed. You brush the chips crumbs from the front of your shirt as the happy ending unfolds on your TV screen. Huzzah, confetti, and a tearful comment about “I Believed in myself too much to die”. Credits. Commercials. Repeat.  
  
You always had an inkling that embellishment was always heavily applied.  
  
The odds were these tourists didn’t listen to the locals warnings because they wanted to take some nature photos for their meager Instagram following. This tourist got themselves lost in the jungle. This would-be-hero probably drank unfiltered river water and was horrendously ill while they tried to figure out the way back to civilization. And if they were lucky enough to be found by local authorities or picked up by some local fishermen then they were already scheming to sell this story to whoever would pay. After embellishing, that is.  
  
A wave of self hate rolls through you slowly. You’re not one to talk. You embellish your own life. 

You go to work every damn day as a walking lie. You greet your boss and coworkers with a smile at the restaurant. You encourage others when someone’s looking down, or offer a helping hand. You try to be there for whoever needs you, whenever your needed, because sometimes you just _need_ to be needed. You bring in treats just to get a tiny bit of praise from your coworkers. You scrub and scrub at the dish-pit until your hands are red and raw and stinging. You go out of your way to have a laid back friendly facade. 

That facade might as well be made of plaster. It crumbles when someone raises their voice or you receive a reminder that you just aren’t up to snuff with the rest of the world. It stays in place only so long, like your cheap dollar store foundation that makes your skin itchy and irritated, and everyday you make a hasty retreat to your ratty little sanctuary; an apartment on the quieter outskirts of town where your neighbors are all retirees. When you’re home none of the people you’ve worked so hard to convince you’re happy can see the darkness creeping in. The facade can come down when you’re home. It almost makes you laugh. 

Almost.

You tip your drink and find it annoyingly empty. You’d get up to get another, but that wave of self loathing makes you feel like your legs are made of stone. ‘_Why bother_’, you think, and your apathy pulls you down deeper.

‘_Why bother with anything?_’

This night is the same as every other night you’ve had this week. When that thought flits through your mind, an unwelcome reminder that truly nothing is expected of you, tears spring to your eyes. Hot and intrusive and threatening to spill over at any second, and you fumble for your phone. With blurry eyes you open the voice search, but nothing comes to mind. A small blue icon of a microphone pulses slowly, waiting with patience only machines know, but your thoughts have locked up. You can’t think of a single thing, this time of all times, not to open YouTube or watch stupid Vines or look at pointless pictures of cute cats.  
  
“Help me,” you blurt, throat thick with the effort of holding a breakdown at bay. You don’t even have time to feel foolish, because Google provides a wealth of articles that you don’t particularly want to read. But at the top of the page there’s an automated bubble the search engine provides; ‘Are you alright? Here’s who to call when you’re in crisis’. 

You take a deep breath. In through the nose and out through the mouth. It’s a futile attempt to regain what little control you had. 

It’s easier to distract yourself if you actually make some sort of effort so you open the first article Google provided. TEN STEPS TO COMBAT THE BLUES shines back at you. Your bitter spirit feels mocked. Anything is better than giving into those hateful tears, however, so you mechanically read through the list.

One, drink more water. Two, take vitamin D supplements. Three, consider visiting a therapist.

You scoff, your bitter spirit feeling the brief hot flare of validation.

Four, take a walk.

You pause. A quick look out the window tells you it's quite late. You'd home from your shift after midnight, and you'd been watching trash TV since. No one would be around. Maybe the fresh air would clear your head. A cigarette definitely would.

In a few short minutes you've replaced your work boots and and shrugged into your jacket. It was nearing winter with each day and the chill would set into your bones if you weren't careful. As soon as you step out of your apartment you light up that smoke, savoring the burn in your lungs. It grounds you, as does the nip in the air. The condescending self help list had been at least a tiny bit helpful, you suppose.

You wander your neighborhood aimlessly as you clear your head. The crime rate is low but you keep your keys in your fist none-the-less; a single person walking alone at night could never be too careful. All in all you figure you're more spooky to others than they would be to you this late at night. How late was it again?

You dig your phone from your coat pocket; nearly three in the morning. 

When you look back up from the bright blue screen you're met with the cemetery gates. It had been quite a while since you'd had the misfortune to walk through here. 

The wind makes the old metal gate creak open. Your gut instantly tells you '_Oh Hell No_'. 

You ignore it.

Wandering into a cemetery should be by all rights be spooky. They were full of the dead. But if you ignored the obvious it was just a park...full of the dead. But it was quiet. It was peaceful. 

Despite the occupants it was private.  
  
You fished another cigarette from the pack, your lighter following suit. A click and a spark, followed by another and another. Without anyone to witness your lack of self control you growled at the inanimate object, slapping it in your palm as though that would give it some sort of jump start. Another click, but this time…

A breeze brought the scent of freshly turned soil to you. You froze in place. Your fight or flight instincts were on the verge of kicking in, but before you could settle on one or the other a figure stepped from between the slanted headstones. The figure that was tall and wearing dirty rumpled clothes with wild electric green hair that stood on end. And you don’t know if it’s shock that holds you in place or if this person just appears before you but you take a hasty step away, which ends with you tumbling onto your ass, cigarette and lighter abandoned on the frosted grass.

“Ohohoho, what’s all this about?” His voice might as well be a gravel country road. He’s staring at you with eyes wide with intrigue. “Can you see me, flesh-sack?” 

You frown up at him as your mind tries to map the easiest escape route back home. Before you manage a response he’s crouching in front of you. He plucks the cigarette from the ground and places it in your mouth which refuses to close. Now that he’s closer the stench clinging to him assaults you fully; damp soil, rotting leaves, perhaps a hint of dumpster or something even more foul. You can also see him more clearly. His clothes are threadbare in places, moldy in others, and...strange. A suit made of wide black and white stripes, a tattered tie that’s still tucked neatly beside an equally tattered dress shirt. Your eyes take as much of this man in as quickly as possible, and when they get back to his face-- His deathly pale white face-- He’s wearing a lopsided grin.

“You can,” he affirms with something akin to wonder in his voice. With a snap of his fingers a flame flickers into existence. You aren’t sure why that doesn’t make you panic (it definitely should), but you take the light without taking your eyes off of this stranger. The tiny flame reveals deep set bruises under his eyes, a green beard to match the wild tresses up top, and-- Oh lord, what the hell was sticking to his face? 

“Am I not supposed to?” Your voice didn’t waver half as much as it wanted it to, which interrupted your fear with pride for only an instant. Inhale the fire, exhale the smoke. He looks oddly pleased once the end of your cigarette flares bright orange. A quick flick of his wrist and the flame dancing over his fingers vanishes in a puff of purple smoke.

“No, you’re not.”

The two of you just stare for a few moments. Neither party seemed sure how to proceed and the growing tension was going to give you heart palpitations. Thankfully the stranger broke first. His hand wrapped around your wrist before you could startle away and he was hauling you to your feet. Shit, his hands were as cold as ice, and that was the last thought that registered before he announced “Unless you’ve got a habit of seeing dead guys.”

"You're not dead," you shoot back the denial immediately, waving a hand as though that would somehow make your proclamation true. "You're standing right in front of me."

" 'Fraid not, doll." He grinned back at you before striking a pose, both hands extended with a jazzy wiggle. "You're looking at the ghost with the most, the one and only! Hey, hey, slow down Tootse," You had taken a startled step back and he'd followed with dirty palms held aloft in a placating gesture. It didn't stop your retreat. "Just look at the opportunity you've found! You see dead people, that could make you a fortune if you play your cards right!"

"I don't want a fortune!" You nearly shout the reply back at him. You slip and stumble your way backwards with wide eyes refusing to leave his. In your high-school days you'd had a tendency to mess around with tarot cards and Ouija boards with your tiny friend group like outcast kids tended to do, but you'd never actually encountered anything...real. This, however, was undeniably real and it terrified you to your core. 

He hadn't stopped following you, expression manic. "You could be famous! You could be the next--"

"And I d-don't want fame!"

Your back slammed hard into something hard and cold. A quick glance and you were met with the grimy marble walls of a mausoleum. You had only averted your gaze for a moment but he was practically pressed chest to chest when you turned back. Your breath hitched, a lump of fear lodging itself in your throat.

"Then what do you want?" His voice had dropped to a low growl. You could feel tears stinging your eyes. This was the last time you'd ever take advice from some stupid article on the internet. Hell, this might be the last time you'd do anything. You didn't know this man's intentions. Eyes burning and heart racing, you try to blink your tears away. Fuck it, what was the use of lying about anything if you were about to be murdered?

“To not be alone.”

Your quiet reply hangs in the silence. Oh fuck, his eyes haven’t left you for a second and you’re going to cry, this was so humiliating, admitting to this stranger that you were just some lonely sap and you were probably about to die so--

“I can fix that," the ghost growls in response, eyes half-lidded and and a suggestive waggle to his eyebrows.

You pause a beat. You're mind process '_Oh, I think fucking not_,' before he's stepping closer.

You shake your head, terrified of what’s coming, but those icy fingers grip your chin. “You’ve just gotta say my name, babe, and I can make sure you’re never alone.”

You shove him away and, surprisingly, he gives you the space you are demanding. It surprises you, too, mostly because you were sure this creep was about to do something unspeakable. “N-Not like that,” you stutter out through chattering teeth. Was it the fear or the bitter cold that made you shiver? Did it matter? The stranger-- Ghost?-- leers at you with that lopsided grin that’s becoming familiar.

“Not like what? You mean you don’t want a p--”

“No, I don’t!” you interrupt, on the verge of shouting, hands trembling and balled into fists. He looks you up and down and a chill runs down your spine. It felt as though you were being read like a book; there were no secrets you could possibly keep from whoever this entity was.

“Not sex, then.” He shrugs, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his tattered over coat. “Your loss. But,” he holds up a finger before you can protest, “You’re lonely and it just so happens I’ve been looking for a new roommate.”

“What for? You’re dead.” You supply that fact and bite your own tongue in embarrassment. Of course he’s dead, that’s been a well established fact for several minutes. You’re brain is about to launch into a diatribe about why, exactly, you suck when the specter grabs your attention again.

“Look, dollface, this crowd?” He gestures widely to the graveyard the two of you are standing in. “Dull. Boring. If I wasn’t already dead they’d kill me with boredom. I need some excitement, a change of scenery if you will...all you’ve gotta do is say my name, and,” He snaps his fingers, a little poof of purple smoke materializing like magic, “Ta-da! Instant roommate!”

This seems like the worst possible idea anyone could ever have. 

Your instincts were screaming to run and this time you didn't ignore them. You bolted away and ran faster than you could remember, lungs burning with effort. You didn't look back until you reached your apparent door, and you were…

Alone.

You eager gulped down the freezing air, numb fingers fumbling for your keys, before you managed to unlock your front door and stumble inside. With the deadbolt slammed shut your legs finally gave up. You sat in a rumpled heap on the floor, your mind racing, before it too gave up and you passed out slumped against your front door.

* * *

Three weeks have passed since you met a dead guy and your life is...changing. You have just finished up your shift. You worked as a line cook, but what kept you out so late was the baking. The kitchen was small with only one oven, and your boss always paid you extra to stay late and get all the pastries made that you could for the next day's service. You didn't mind the silence, but you did mind the long walk home now that winter was setting in. 

And your walk home brought you past the graveyard.

Every night he’d be casually leaning against the fence, or floating on air as if there was some invisible chaise lounger beneath him; ankles crossed and hands tucked behind his head. Once or twice you were greeted only by his head sitting on the low flagstone fence. That earned a startled scream from you the first night, but the second time it happened you punted his disembodied head like a soccer ball. He didn’t try that prank again.

He’d greet you the same, head kicking or no, every night on your way home from work.

“Hey there hot stuff, have you reconsidered my offer?” 

To which you’d diligently reply, “Not a snowball's chance, fella.” 

He’d shrug and maybe give you a half heated glare before launching into whatever had occupied his time today. You’d started the habit of having a smoke and chatting with him each night, and although his stories were always (worryingly) entertaining you gave him the same responses; “Mine was fine, how was yours?” You can't bring yourself to actually share. How pitiful would that be? The only person you feel comfortable talking to was a ghost who’s pass time was hassling the living. But you didn’t feel the expectation to share, or lie, or even pretend that you had the energy to participate and that felt...nice. The ghost would prattle on and crack jokes and trying to make you laugh while you burned through your cigarette in silence. To be honest, the specter just seemed happy to have the company. 

You could relate.

Eventually you’d smoke your cigarette to the filter (you told yourself it was wasteful not to when you knew deep down it because you were having a good time), toss the extinguished butt into one of the empty stonework vases that framed either side of the cemetery gateway, and wish your dead guy acquaintance a “Good night.” 

Without fail he’d see you off with “Don’t forget about my offer, babe!”

And then you’d walk home to an empty apartment. You’d sigh as you hang your coat on the cheap plastic hook you’d gotten at the dollar store. You’d sigh as you changed into your more comfortable sweats and baggy T-shirt. You’d sigh as you sat down in front of the TV with snacks. You’d sigh as your routine fell right back into place and the darkness crept in.

You’d sigh because you were alone and you were starting to actually consider his stupid offer.


	2. Bad at Charades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick warning for dark thoughts and a lot of sadness in this chapter. 
> 
> Thank you for the wonderful comments I received on the first chapter, I'm just so glad y'all are enjoying it! Your comments are my best motivator. Kudos are appreciated as well! I hope you enjoy!

This last week had been...trying. 

You were struggling at work as the busy season picked up. Something about cold weather made more people want their food prepared for them and there were more butts on seats every night. More butts on seats was generally a good thing; butts equaled money in your industry, in the simplest terms. It also meant more tickets filling the rail, which meant more nights working alongside short tempered coworkers.

The chef you worked alongside was getting more irritated with you each night. Even though you kept up and did your best, that didn’t seem to matter when he started feeling the pressure. He’d snap at you that you were slowing service down, that you fussed too damn much, that if you couldn’t keep up “what was even the point of you”? It came to a head tonight. He’d laid into you about taking too long to fetch whatever it was he’d called for and you’d dropped a plate.

He’d absolutely lost it then. The chef berated you relentlessly and told you he’d never wanted you in his kitchen and to just stay out of his way if you couldn’t manage a simple task. Spittle flew from his mouth as he got in your face and shouted loud enough the entire restaurant heard. And you knew it was true because the floor manager stepped quietly into the kitchen, to witness your humiliation, before quietly reminding the chef that he could be heard through the whole dining room. 

You’d finished the shift with tears stinging your eyes and a lump burning like coal in your throat.

You didn’t even get the luxury of your private baking time tonight. The kitchen was a disaster, the chef having left you and the dishwasher to handle the mess without a word half an hour before closing. You and your coworker dutifully scrubbed the pots and plates and pans and everything else until the kitchen shined and all the while you held your wild emotions at bay. It was fifteen minutes past midnight by the time you had both finished and you gave up on accomplishing any baking tonight. You and the dishwasher locked up and parted ways with a quiet goodnight.

You kept tenuous control on your pain all the way to the cemetery. You knew there would be a friendly face there, no matter his ghostly status. And he’d have a wide smile that you’d seen nearly every night for a month and a dirty joke locked and loaded. You weren’t going to show up a mess. You could hold it together for an extra ten minutes.

But there was no one to greet you when you came to a stop at the cemetery gates.

You waited for a few seconds, waiting for the prank or punchline, but it never came. There was only the wind sweeping through and rustling the dead leaves, the creak of old tree branches. 

A slow, shaky breath in was followed by an equally shaky breath out.

Fingers trembling with cold found a cigarette and you went through the motions of lighting up. 

Maybe he was busy. Five minutes passed and you waited in silence. You released clouds of silvery smoke into the night as you thought of all the things that he could possibly be doing. He’d told you about all the seedy fun he could have in the underworld, although you proclaimed his adoration for terrifying the inhabitants of the mortal realm.

Another five minutes passed and the ember of your cigarette met the filter. Maybe he was just late? Self-loathing douses the brief flicker of hope. It’s not like there were formal plans between the two of you. Hell, there wasn’t even a friendship. He was a dead guy who owes you nothing. 

You cried then. And you hated every burning tear that raced down your face and soaked into the rough fabric of your coat. You cried with an honesty that you only allow yourself to have in the privacy of your home, eyes going red and skin splotchy with tear stains and sobs that shook from your shoulders and stomach. The ember died against the filter and slipped from your shaking fingers. Your back met the cold pillar hard and gravity and grief pulled you to the ground, your shoes slipping out from under you against the frozen grass. You didn’t care if anyone heard you, and even if you did care, there was no stopping these emotions from overwhelming you. You’d tried so hard, so fucking hard, and it never seemed to be enough. And the one bright spot of your work day was just your own delusions of maybe, just maybe, you’d found someone to connect with.

You were alone. You openly mourned this loneliness, here at the gates of the cemetery. There wasn’t a soul living or dead present to hear your weeping, your lamentations turning icy as the cold seeped into your skin. The cold in the ground seeped, too, through your meager layers of clothing. It was uncomfortable. But getting up meant stumbling home to the same depressing dusty little apartment where you’d lived alone for years now. You didn’t think you could handle the emptiness of that place, not right now. 

‘ _ Fuck it _ ’, you decide, scrubbing your hands roughly over your your eyes. ‘ _ No one's waiting for me there anyway. _ ’

You were truly alone in this moment, and it felt like you always would be. 

* * *

“--abe?”

You shiver and blink, head rising slowly from where it rested against your folded arms. Your vision is blurry but you can make out a shape making its way towards you. Something tall and broad and picking up speed.

“Are you actually insane?”

There’s a familiar voice. It’s deep and gravely and edged with a sort of practiced calm that you’ve only ever associated with panic. 

“It’s too cold out, you fucking idiot,” The familiar voice growls, irritated, as hands give you a rough shake. Your vision swims as the shape comes into focus, and there is your ghostly acquaintance. He’s hovering over you with the most peculiar expression. The street light you’re sat under reveals hair that was usually electric green was currently a mess of purple and yellow and orange. The insane notion filled you that you wanted to reach out and run your fingers through the chromatically shifting tresses, but you resist it. An action like that could be viewed any number of ways and you knew the ghost to be a lecherous pervert. You also couldn’t feel your fingers. When had that happened?

“What the hell are you even doing here? You could’ve frozen to death, you numskull!” You huff out a pitiful sigh, lungs burning with the cold air.

“Just really tired,” You lied. Your throat was painfully sore and it took a few careful gulps of frigid air to speak again. “Must’ve lost track of time while having my smoke—”

“Cut the shit,” He growled above you, his fingers digging into your shoulders. “Your fragile little living body isn’t made to sit in the freezing cold for Satan knows how long. So what the fuck are you doing, flesh-sack?”

“I’m fine,” you cough out, eyes wide. His gaze burns. You’ve always felt he could read you like a book and you were reminded of it as his eyes narrowed to a glare. 

“Oh, sure you are, it’s totally normal to sit outside in the middle of winter and slowly become a Person-Popsicle—”

“Jesus Christ, I said I’m _ fine _ —”

“Horse shit!” He shouted the last words at you, his hair shifting in hue as crimson bled outward from his roots. Like magic your eyes welled with tears again, your teeth grinding agonizingly as you trapped a sob. Your throat worked painfully around a lump that seemed permanently lodged at this point. You were trying to find the right words. You couldn’t. You shuffled through the mental catalog you kept of all of the explanations that would be simultaneously true and reductive; Cerebral index card with the excuses you’d given in the past as to why your face was tear stained and your eyes were glassy. 

He must have sensed your hesitation because his icy fingers gripped your chin, the sensation dulled with your chill numbed skin, like he had the night you’d met him. Those traitorous tears fell against your will, burning new trails and leaving scarlet stains in their wake. You fell forward, your forehead planting firmly on his shoulder to hide your weakness. What the hell did it matter if he shoved you away or anything else at the display? He was a ghost and it’s not like anyone in the world would ever know you tried to find comfort from a departed soul. 

But he didn’t push you away. He didn’t embrace you, not for several moments, his body tense in what you assumed was surprise. You were grateful for that. But then his arms did cautiously circle your shoulders and oh, oh you shook with the sob that his kindness wrenched from you. His embrace tightened and you pressed closer, numb fingers clinging to his moss covered overcoat.

“I’m r-really sorry,” you hiccoughed, voice muffled against his shoulder, only to be shushed. “It’s been really...really, h-hard today...”

The specter chuckled. “Gee, you don’t say?” His voice was a gruff rumble above you. 

You laid everything bare. You told him about how the pressure at work was building up with each passing day and how people yelling at you would frighten you and make you cry without fail. You told him about the broken plate. You told him how terrified you were to go to work tomorrow because if your chef yelled at you like that again you were sure you’d breakdown in the middle of service. All the while the ghost listened, and a tremor ran through him. His fingers were tensing against your back until you could feel your coat bunched into his fists. 

“And I was—” You hesitated then, your breath coming up short as panic gripped you. You’d never done this before, just handed over so much of yourself to someone. You protected yourself from other hurting you by never giving a shred of your true self away. 

You defend yourself with all of those embellishments that made you like those phony TV shows you watched in the dead of night.

You always had hated those phony TV shows.

“I was walking back t-to the apartment, b-but...but you weren’t here. I wanted to see you tonight, I j-just really—” You swallow down the fear crawling up your throat. “Really needed to see you.” He goes tense against you and you worry that that’s the extent of his kindness. When you chance a look up however you find he’s changed again; streaks of bright pink are racing from root to split-end tip in wide swaths. Green eyes wide with...something indescribable stared down at you. 

“Doesn’t explain why you’re doing your best to become an ice sculpture...” he muttered gruffly in reply. 

“I was w-waiting.” you managed to stuttered out, a full body shiver stopping you from continuing on. In truth it didn't seem like you needed to. If you didn't have the ghost attention before (and you did) you most assuredly had it now. 

He stared at you, mouth agape and eyes wide for several silent moments. You were terrified you’d maybe said the wrong thing, or maybe your pathetic neediness was going to be the breaking point for the ghosts patience. Suddenly his hands were gripping your shoulders, expression wild.

“Why the FUCK aren’t we roommates yet then?!” He whined the question and seemed to bounce in place. It reminded you of all the little kids that would bob at their parents side, begging for candy in the checkout at the grocery store. “You realize you could’ve died, right? Like, if I hadn’t showed up when I had you would’ve been toast...or, actually, you would’ve been iced—”

“And I told you I’m fine,” you shoot back, annoyed, and about to pull away. Unlike all the other times he doesn’t let you. That gets your attention.

“I’m being serious, babe. I know, it’s not a good look on me, but I really fucking mean it!” You roll your eyes and he lets out a frustrated like growl. “Look, look, If you just summon me and bring me to your place, then I can just, y’know, _be_ there. You don’t have to hang around in some shitty old cemetery—”

”I don’t know if this is—”

“And you don’t have to risk dying from exposure, and then you won’t be alone!” 

You do your best to frown up at him, but your face is starting to feel stiff from the cold and all the emotional waves you’ve ridden tonight. “You’re a ghost, my dude,” you retort, deadpan.

“Well thank you for finally noticing!”, he snarks in return. A snort a laugh and your sore throat protests, but you ignore it in favor for the smile he's wearing.

“I’ll still be t-technically alone. Just more likely to end up in a psych ward.”

He opens his mouth to rebuff your argument and pauses. You can see the gears turning in his mind. His teeth shut with an audible clack and for a second you think he’ll drop the subject. 

He shrugs. “I mean, you’ll be a little less alone though, right?” 

Now it was your turn to gape and will your brain to build a retort. Much like the specter you opened and closed your mouth, willing an intelligent argument.

You had none.

You sigh, shoulders drooping and head sagging as you mentally admit defeat. You’d already embarrassed yourself and gave away how lonely you were. And he did have a point. You’d be one ghost less lonely than the day before. When you frame it like that, it seemed like a simple equation. You finally look back up to him, his eyes wide and expression pleading.

“Fine then,” You reply before standing on shaky legs. Your limbs feel like thy’re filled with pins and needles and TV static and  _ holy fuck _ did it hurt. You leaned against the pillar at your back and started to rub feeling back into your hands while the ghost celebrated, fists punching up at the sky like he’d won a title match. The mess of rainbow colors were all gone now, the familiar electric green lighting up his head like a wiry neon crown. It brought the first smile your face had worn in a whole week. “How does this work? Spell book? Incense? A ritual circle drawn in blood?”

“Love the enthusiasm, doll, but no.” He had halted his celebration to stand in front of you. “I just need you to say my name, three times.”

“Your name?”

“My name, three times, it must be spoken unbroken.” He recited and the thought that you weren’t the first person to go through this finally dawned on you. It would be worrying if you weren’t already at your wits end with your current situation. 

“Alright then, what’s your name?” But he was already shaking his head, his grin smug.

“Don’t work that way, hotstuff.” You frown. Was he playing hard to get? After he'd been trying and failing for more than a month for you to agree to his crazy scheme?

“Then how am I supposed to say your name if I don’t know what it is?” You shoot back, unimpressed.

He started to mime something and oh. Oh no, not charades, you were never good at charades. He raised his hand to his puckered lips and tipped back before looking expectantly back at you. You just grimaced a pulled air past your teeth.

“Water?”

He shook his head and repeated the motion.

“Drink? Soda? Cup?” He shook his head with each wrong answer, letting out a high pitched growl of frustration. Then he changed tactics, and began miming something that you just...you had no idea what the hell…

"Cat?"

"You think my name is DietCat?" You've never heard person sound so unimpressed. You bluster and blood rushes the scene of the accident; your embarrassed face, red and rising with each passing moment.

"Well I don't fuckin' know, dude, it's your name, not mine!"

  
  


“Not even a guess? Really?” You just shrugged. He hummed and paced before you, back and forth, back and forth. He was going to wear a path in the grass with his incessant pacing. Finally he clapped his hands together and turned to look at you with a manic expression that seemed like it should go on a mad scientists face as the monster came to life. 

You’ve got one of those new fangled computer phones breathers are so attached to these days, don’tcha?” You frown up at him but nod as you dig your phone out of your pocket. The uncharitable thought flickers through your mind that all of this was an elaborate ruse for the ghost to snag your cell and run. The digital clock read nearly two in the morning. 

Shit. He hadn’t been wrong about the danger you’d put yourself in. 

You unlock your device with fingers that finally have feeling back in them. He’s standing directly at your side, the phantom feeling of his incorporeal chest pressed up snug against your shoulder. It should feel intrusive. Hell, anyone else and it would feel intrusive. But not right now, not with him. 

You focus on the task at hand before your train of thought continues down that track.

“Okay, can you look shit up?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumble in response, tapping impatiently on your glowing Google search bar.

“Look up the…” He pauses and counts on his fingers, eyes scanning the sky as though it held answers. “Ah, yeah! Look up the the second brightest star in Orion’s belt.”

You type in his request. The ghost grins down at your glowing phone screen and google returns…

“Betelgeuse…?”

The ground rumbles beneath your feet. “That’s it!”, he crows, triumphant. 

You turn eyes wide with apprehension on the ghoul at your side. He’s practically vibrating at your side. This is when your common sense should have kicked in; speaking his name made the very ground tremble beneath your feet. He was a self proclaimed trickster and terror. He’d even mentioned he was a demon once, but you just thought he’d been joking around. You weren’t so sure now. Yeah, some alarm bells should have been blaring somewhere in your brain.

But there wasn’t. The only thing you felt was...Excitement.

“Beetlejuice—”

He shook from head to toe with the next tremor, his grin splitting into an elated cackle. “Come on, just one more babe, we’re almost there!”

You take a deep breath. 

“...Beetlejuice?”

The street light your standing under explodes and showers you with bright orange sparks and shards of glass. A scream is wrench from you and you cover your head for the majority of debris raining down from above, the dissonant clatter of glass shrapnel deafening all around you like a wind chime in a hailstorm. Your heart was hammering in your chest. The world around you blurred in an out of focus in the pitch black night. There was nothing but silence and it began feeding the flames of panic that now boiled in your gut. Your knees wobble weakly under you as you take a cautious step into the darkness...then another...and another...

Now, there was a definite...sound, just behind you. Something close, and quiet, and sounding specifically like the word “Boo”. And when your fight or flight instincts kicked in you swung around with your fist still stinging like it was filled with pins and needles. It ( your fist, that is) cracked against something cold and fleshy and corporeal. 

It was your ghost’s face.

You hid a gasp behind your hands as the specter stumbled, his own hands now gripping where you struck. You started a litany of apologies, "I'm sorry, I'm s-sorry, oh my God I'm sorry--", staccato breaths puffing small fog clouds into the night air, and you braced for the backlash…

“You’ve got a hell of a left hook, holy shit!” He was laughing, the sound titillating and a rough and making your racing heart gradually slow. The ghost...Beetlejuice...stood before you, and everything you had ever associated with him was now tenfold; the powerful scent of earth and decaying foliage and just a whiff of sour cigar smoke…? Or perhaps the compost heap at the community garden? Dirt was packed onto his coat and moss clung at places that moss simply should not be, most notably the green carpet of moss that now vividly framed the right side of his nose. 

His lips crack into a lazy grin showing two rows of slightly crooked, slightly yellowed teeth. “Hey there, hotstuff.” He closed the distance, a forced sort of “cool-unaffected-I know I’m irresistible-guy” swagger in his step that you’d only ever seen in B-Movies on the Hallmark channel. He waggled his eyebrows and popped his collar with a suave flick of his wrists and when you barked out a laugh his grin only got wider. “You goin’ my way?”

“If your way is someplace with a heated blanket, then yes,” you manage to reply between breathless laughter. He hooked your arm in his.

"Lead the way, roomie!"

Warmth bloomed in your chest, petals of joy and thankfulness and unbridled excitement unfolding one after the other. "Okay," you reply, and when your voice wavers with the strength of your emotions he doesn't poke fun at you. He just looks ahead, into the night by you side, filling your ears with stories of successful haunting's of his past and shitty jokes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I wasn't kidding about this being slow-burn, by the by. 
> 
> P.S. I hope you're ready to see things from a different perspective next chapter :)


	3. Through the Demon's Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How about a little shift in perspective?
> 
> Thank you again everyone for your interest in my fic. I'm not gonna lie, it's INCREDIBLY self indulgent and I'm really enjoying writing it. And I'm ECSTATIC that so many people are enjoying it. 
> 
> Read on and enjoy!

It felt so damn good to be free again.

Well, almost free. The ghost with the most was still shackled temporarily to you. But he'd gotten past the first obstacle. The summoning was always the trickiest part. Now he could begin working on phase two: Green Card status.

Beetlejuice could feel the tremor in your fingers, see the tremble in your shoulders you tried to hide. You look goddamn awful. The sight of you all balled up under that dim street light would have scared him to death if he hadn’t been dead already. He could sense how your mortal body was edging closer and closer to failing, that if you’d spent another hour in that spot there would’ve been a good chance he would’ve found your soulless corpse. And the demon couldn’t have that. 

After all, it wouldn’t do for his ticket to freedom to drop dead before the race was half fought.

He’d made missteps with the Maitlands and Deetz and the whole...well, the whole damn affair had been a shit show. A fun shit show, but a turd dipped in gold was still a turd. 

Beetlejuice had made plenty of mistakes. He’d gotten attached. He’d cared. He saw his loneliness and brokenness and regret reflected back at him in the faces of those people, both living and dead, and he’d let those emotions rule his fate. Beetlejuice had a lot of time to think about it after he had wandered away from that house and back into his very limited world of graveyards and mortuaries and crime scenes. He’d thought about returning, visiting the spot where his second corpse was buried in the dead of night to watch the shadows of those he’d left behind their drawn curtains. He never went near enough to be seen, never noticed. 

He was _ invisible _.

He’d schemed and screwed over so many souls for a chance at his freedom, and it ended up costing him the tenuous relationships he’d created. Or at least he’d thought he’d created them. The longer he’d been alone the more he thought that he was incapable of anything resembling a normal humanesque relationship, platonic or otherwise. 

He’d been prowling for months and months, just looking and waiting for any opportunity that appeared. The few that did had fallen through and his resentment and frustration grew as time marched on, unaffected by his desperate need to be exempt from his sentence.

Then you had come along.

You might as well have wrapped yourself up in a ribbon with a tag that read “To Beetljuice, the sexiest man this side of the Mississippi who's gonna be free at last” that night when you stumbled into your local graveyard. He’d watched and listened and tried to keep his cool; breathers tended to spook easily. If you could see him the demon had better purposes for you that simple scaring. He’d offered you everything a breather could possibly want; money, clout, even international fame for Satan's sake! 

But when you’d said you just didn’t want to be alone...his heart would’ve dropped to his stomach if he had a working one. He could relate to not wanting to be alone, he had been for ages now it felt like. His resolve slipped long enough for something genuine to peek through the shutters Beetlejuice kept tightly closed on himself; a glimmer of the man who just needs to be needed. 

He wondered, as you left, if you had seen yourself reflected back at you.

He certainly had.

Beetlejuice’s resolve had turned stony again in the following days. You began your little habit of stopping by after your shift— Why were you working so late, anyway? And didn’t you have a car, he wondered to himself? It wouldn't be safe for you to walk all the way to your home all on your own so late at night… — and taking ten minutes for a chat and a smoke. It was a shocking development, considering how you’d turned tail and bolted into the darkness the night you’d met him. But hey, Bettlejuice knew not to look a gift horse in the mouth. If you were coming back he’d put on the charm and hammer away at your resolve. If you liked his company for just those ten minutes you’d be begging him to move in with you by the end of the week.

But then the week ended and he was no closer to you agreeing to his proposal. And then another week went by, and still you resisted. Half way through the third week he’d been at his wits end. The demon stormed the confines of the graveyard, pacing and anxious and where the _ fuck _were you, anyway? You should’ve been here by now, the specter was sure of it. 

Maybe something happened. Maybe you were in trouble.

Maybe you were just bored with him.

There was the briefest moment of worry, something invisible tugging at the edge of his memory, before he shook it off. No, not this time. 

_ Walls up. Distance. Detachment. Self control. _

He’d gone off his tits on some conjured coke and tore around the afterlife like the demon he was. It kept the worry from his mind and reminded him of who he really was. He was a degenerate, a demon from hell who ruined lives just for shits and giggles. He did _not_ worry about why one little breather and their insignificant little problems. Or at least that's what he told himself.

When you’d returned the following late night Beetlejuice had done a lousy job of hiding his bruised ego. He had tried to paint on a smile and any attempts at platitudes or temptations he’d tried on you in the short few weeks you’d known each other fell flat. And of course, because you were insufferably perceptive of others, you noticed immediately.

“You okay, fella?” 

Beetlejuice bristled. You had the nerve to ask what was wrong? You were what was wrong, dammit! You wouldn’t get with the program! Just be a good little breather and bend to his will, for fucks sake, or he’d have to get nasty! But he just returned with a sour milk smile and replied “Never been better, Tootse!”

You had frowned harder at him, eyes narrowed like you could see his secrets written in between the messy lines of his button down shirt. The intensity of your expression would have made his heart race if the damn thing was still beating. “I mean...” you drug the word out, your teeth on show for...had he ever seen your teeth? It was a weird, distracting thought. The points of your canines were especially distracting. ``...if you say so. But, like...you really don’t have to lie.” 

You might as well have hauled and punched him in the gut. He turned to face you head on, hackles raised. “Who says I’m lying, huh?”

You flinched, hard. He should have felt vindicated. Damn right you should be afraid, he was a _ fucking _ demon from Hell. He tried to hold onto that feeling, that vein of deep raw anger that fueled every demon worth their salt. It slipped away like a greased up rope tied to a ton of solid ship anchor; evading him lightning fast and vanishing as though it hadn’t been there in the first place. So he growled in his frustration, high pitched and manic, and you took a step away and _ shit _, the thought that you might be afraid of him made the ghost feel lowly.

“Shit, okay, fine, you’re right or whatever,” Beetlejuice had growled, each word a struggle on it’s own. “You didn’t stop by last night. Thought I might’ve bored you, or…” _ Or done something wrong and made you leave _, but he slammed those words behind twelve solid feet of “I’ve been hurt before” brand concrete. “...whatever, I don’t know.”

The silence swelled between the pair, three feet apart in the dark of night under a sickly yellow street light. Beetlejuice chanced a glance at you. You were staring at your feet. 

“Sorry I yelled—”

“I’m sorry, it was—”

His head snapped up, green hair that was duller in shade whipping wildly, and you were staring at him. Your brows furrowed and wrinkling the usually smooth skin of your forehead. 

“It was my night off,” you had said in a small voice. 

_ Shit. Fuck. Shitting fuck Godamnit to Hell _. 

Beetlejuice had bowed his head then, a hand rubbing awkwardly at the nape of his neck. Of course it was something that simple. Of course he’d blown things out of proportion, again. He tried again to remember his objectives this time around; _ Walls up. Distance. Detachment. Self control. _ It was becoming some sort of shitty mantra that he recited whenever you wormed yourself just a little too close for emotional comfort. 

But he’d already fucked up. He’d frightened you, and not in the fun way. 

What good was his damned mantra if he was going to trip and eat asphalt at the finish line?

“Sorry, babe.” His gravelly voice was soft and he couldn’t meet your eyes, and while it felt good to try and set things right it felt just as wrong to be anything near involved with you. It made him fear the future. Even as you smiled up at him, a sight he’d never seen from you before, intrusive thoughts assaulted his peace of mind. Namely the inevitable end and disappointment and bone deep pain that would come from having a new Best Friend. But, _ holy fuck _, the way you smiled up at him…

The quiet affection that smile radiated made Beetljuice wonder if all that pain would be worth it in the end.

* * *

“We’re here,” you said through a mouthful of chattering teeth. You were fumbling for your keys. It was taking you positively _ forever _. Beetlejuice had enough of waiting, and so had your body if the full body shivers were any indicator. Practically bouncing at your side with impatient energy, the ghost with the most sent your front door flying open with a snap of his fingers. He was excited to get inside and see his new digs.

In truth Beetlejuice wasn’t entirely sure what he was expecting. Maybe a tidy little dining nook, some cheap but clean ikea furniture, maybe even a bookshelf full of cook books (You’d already told him you cooked and baked for a living). And plants. You looked like the kind of person that would have an army of succulents.

What he was greeted with wasn’t at all what he’d imagined.

The entire apartment was one big...room. The only other room he could see with an actual door, which was ajar, was the bathroom. Your kitchen wasn’t dirty, per se, but it didn’t look like there was anything in use. Your stovetop was a clutter of cereal boxes, a few bowls of cup o'noodles, and a frankly impressively stacked mountain of what Beetlejuice assumed was empty diet soda cans. There was no dining table in sight, but there was an island that seemed to double as a bar that was full of junk mail, recipes and mail coupons. 

In one corner was a bed, blankets and sheets rumpled, with some clothes carelessly tossed about on the floor. In the other was a very well worn and incredibly squishy looking sofa, tan faux suede worn to a shine on the seat cushions, sitting directly opposite a decent sized flat screen TV.

Definitely not the cozy, cottage-esque little apartment owner he’d pegged you for.

You must have noticed the he was staring because you regained his attention with a flustered apology, “Sorry, it's such a disaster, honestly don’t get any company...”

Beetljuice turned on the charm by giving you a lopsided smirk and approving nod to assuage your worry. “Hell of a lot better than anything in the afterlife, trust me.”

He smiled down at you, but you weren’t looking at him. Your head was swiveling back and forth, from one side of the room to the other; from the bed to the sofa, back to the bed, and then—

“Ohoho-No,” Beetlejuice had chuckled. He recognized the internal struggle, the spiraling indecision that would lead to your anxiety rising. He may be a demon, but he wasn’t, y’know...needlessly cruel (or at least that was Beetlejuice’s opinion of himself, anyway) and you’d dealt with enough of your own chemical imbalances for one day. “You’re half frozen ass is getting in that bed if I have to drag you there.”

The ghost watched you sigh. Was it his imagination or did you look relieved? He helped you out of your coat, just barely resisting the temptation to vanish the thing and save himself the trouble, before you stumbled away to your (presumed) water closet. He gave himself the shortest home tour he’d ever had, not even needing to roam as he stood in the middle of the room and turned to resurvey all there was, while he listened to the running of your faucet (Presumption, confirmed). There wasn’t anything on the walls, not even a poster. Hell, the closest thing to “Art” Beetlejuice could find in your home was the Chinese take-out menu hanging at an odd angle from your fridge by a magnet. The room was dimly lit by a single light in the hood over your stove top.

You stumbled back out a few minutes later, in baggy sweats and an over-sized tatty sweatshirt, and no, this did absolutely nothing for his imagination. It was odd to see you in this way, just not in the titillating way Beetlejuice had been hoping for. If you had an aura or whatever the fuck it was hippy's these days were hooked on yours wouldn’t be a color at all. It would be a giant flashing neon sign that reads “BIG-UNSEXY-ENERGY”. He was used to seeing your black work slacks and your mottled gray peacoat buttoned over any of Four bland work provided T-shirts. Seeing you like this, practically drowning in the over-sized and undoubtedly comfortable clothes, he understood why his fantasy of your home had been so far from the mark. 

He was also used to either your baseball cap (you always wore it backwards because _ of course _ you would, nerd) or a black knit beanie on top of your head. He’d never seen your hair before. That was weird, now that he really thought about it. It looked soft. He wanted to pull it through his fingers. 

It was incredibly distracting.

Okay, so maybe not _ nothing _ for his imagination.

Beetlejuice fidgeted in place, fingers pushing and pulling against each other, his knuckles popping at uneven intervals as he waited for you to wander to your bed. You just came to stand in front of him however and it was the first clear look at you he’d had since he blew the lights at the graveyard. There were dark half moons under eyes red from too much damn crying. You didn’t look as terrifyingly pale as you had when he found you (Thank God, slash Satan, slash whoever the fuck wants credit for that one) but your exhaustion was impossible to miss.

“I can take the couch until we get you a bed.” Even as you made the offer the demon chuckled at just how bad of a deal it was. It was weirdly considerate. It made those fanciful thoughts of _ ‘maybe the risk is worth it’ _flit through his mind. He shook his head to clear the rogue thoughts like they were bothersome flies. 

“Don’t need sleep when you’re dead, hotstuff,” The specter replied. With a suggestive wink he sauntered closer, the swing of his hips intentional and over-dramatic. “But I’ll go to bed with ya, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

That earned him a laugh, the rich sound hitching on a rough throat that would no doubt be sore in the morning. He really liked it when he made you laugh. And it was so surprising, but not in an unwelcome way, that you could just turn his wild nature on its head with a laugh or a smile. Beetlejuice wondered if you’d ever stop surprising him. With your apologies, or your affinity for cozy clothes, or how your home was secretly shitty. 

“Thanks for the offer, big hoss, but I think I’ll pass,” You laugh, scrubbing the heels of your hands over your exhausted eyes. “You watch TV if you want, I’m used to the sound. And there’s not much to eat but have whatever— Actually, do you need to eat when you’re dead?”

“Nope,” Beetlejuice shot back. “But I fuckin’ love snacks.”

You nodded, a slight tug at the corners of your mouth the beginning of a smile. “Cool, that makes two of us.” 

You watched him as he turned on your TV with a flick of his wrist, the volume low. If the overly dramatic music was anything to go by it was some reality TV garbage that was so popular these days. He watched you get into bed from where he flopped on your sofa, his arms tucked under his head, dirty overcoat draped messily over the side. The ghost relaxed back into the cushions, a sigh gusting out of him. He was one step closer to freedom.

Shit, in all the excitement (read, panic) he’d almost forgotten about his end goal!

  
  


Hurdle number one; cleared. You’d summoned him and he sure as hell wasn't going anywhere. Now he just had to find a way to get you to take the next steps to his freedom. Extorsion and torture hadn’t really worked the last time he’d blackmailed someone into marrying him. He’d have to try a different approach, and honestly, the fact that were as lonely as him made you way to easy a target. Not that he wouldn’t take his time, or enjoy the the game all the way through. You’d have to believe it, you’d have to want it too, or else he’d end up stabbed in the back again. 

“Hey, Beetlejuice?”

“BJ, babe. Or Beej. Or daddy, y’know, if you’re feelin’ frisky.” You laughed on the other side of the small apartment and he smiled absently at the flashing TV screen. He liked your laugh. 

Beetlejuice knew as soon as he convinced you to marry him he would have his freedom. Freedom that he had sacrificed so much for and wanted for so long. He’d be gone in the blink of your eyes and he wouldn’t look back.

You’d be alone again.

“Okay then, Beej...I, uh...thanks. For tonight, I mean.”

He inhaled a breathe he didn’t need, green eyes drifting up to the ceiling. 

_ Walls up. Distance. Detachment. Self control. _

“Any time, babe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos are greatly appreciated and comments fuel this old weird jalopy. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! The next should be up in a day or two. In the meantime, I hope y'all have a great day!  
P.S. you can find me on tumblr now! I'm at ( tarot-tea-trashmen )! Thanks y'all!


	4. One in Sickness, One in Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You spent so long out in the cold in seeped in and now you find yourself sick. 
> 
> Thank you all for your patience! Part of the delay was a family emergency, BUT the other part of the delay was...I've plotted out the entire story! And y'all, she's gonna be doosie, so I hope ya'll are ready for a good old fashioned long slow burn. 
> 
> More at the end, but for now I hope you enjoy chapter four!

Your ears are ringing when you wake up. It probably has something to do with the commercial that's doing it's best to blow out the speakers on your TV. You didn't remember leaving that on when you'd finally fallen into bed last night. Whatever, it didn't matter, you had to use the restroom anyway, you'd just turn it off on the way back to bed.

It takes a great deal of effort to sit up. Every muscle in your body ached. With each move you made you looked like an extra in a zombie movie, jolting and jerk with each wave of pain. It took you at least sixty second just to untangle your legs from your comforter and plant your feet on your floor. 

"Good mornin', roomie!" The gravelly voice made you jump hard, a hand flying to your chest. You gasped too, or at least you tried to. Rather you wheezed and it sent your chest and throat on fire. The noise felt more like cat claws digging into your esophagus and slowing dragging down. Your stumbled out of bed and blindly groped around your nightstand for your phone. The bright screen made your head roar in protest as you checked the time: it was five fifteen. The panic didn't set in until you registered the "P.M." behind the numbers. 

You leap into action then. You were meant to start you shift in thirty minutes and it was at least a thirty minute walk to work. If you hurry you figured you could shave a few minutes off your commute by ducking through some alleyways and jogging, but you still had to get ready in a hurry. "Ah, shit!" You tried to shout, stumbling up and rushing into action.

Beetlejuice watched with no small degree of amusement as you went tearing through the apartment. You disappeared into the bathroom just long enough to climb back into the clothes you'd abandoned on the linoleum floor and swish a cup of mouthwash. When you came bursting back out into the main room your new ghostly roommate was hovering in midair, a conjured red and white striped bag of movie theater popcorn in hand. "Where's the fire, Tootse?"

"I'm late for work," you tried to explain. Your voice sounded as sandpaper rough as the specter's. You were shrugging into your coat and fumbling for your beanie, your head pounding in protest at all the commotion you were making. "You gonna be okay for, like, nine or ten?"

"Minutes?"

"Hours." you corrected, keys in hand and already at the door. Before Beetlejuice could respond, affirmative or negative, you were calling out "See ya!" And racing out your door.

You weren't necessarily known for your athleticism but this also wasn't the first occasion you'd been late for work and had to do some jogging to make up time. You took every shortcut you knew of, sprinting through alleys crowded with garbage cans and recycling bins, until you have reached your destination with lungs burning. And not a moment too soon! You walked through the back door as casually as you could with not a minute to spare, face flushed and winded, and you made your way to the line of beat up old lockers that lined the back wall. The cafe owner had picked them up from junkyard and they were much like the restaurant staff; a little battered and bent out of shape, a little crusty, but they still got the job done. Shrugging out of your coat was a challenge, and so was putting it away for some reason. If your locker would just hold still for a second maybe this wouldn't be so difficult.

“Oh, you showed up.” Your soul damn near flew right out of your body as one of your co-workers unexpectedly rounded the corner. The dishwasher— what was his name again? Oh shit, that was embarrassing, you couldn’t remember his name -- from the night before was standing, hands held out as though that would assuage the startle you’d just had. A tired laugh huffed out of you, your head falling back against your locker with a hollow thunk. “Shit, sorry, didn’t mean to scare ‘ya.”

“No, no it’s fine, I’m just...I’m just really tired.” Holy  _ shit _ , you sounded light years worse than you had back at the apartment. Your voice was so hoarse it sounded like you had smoked a pack a day for the last fifteen years. That thought only occupied your mind for a moment before those pesky inflamed lungs in your chest decided now was the time to have a coughing fit. You’re co-worker grimaced, wincing as the painful sounds shook through your body. 

“Are ya gonna be okay for service tonight?” He asked, voice dropping as others passed by to keep your conversation private. “Ya don’t look like you’re feelin’ too great. Well, that, an—” 

Almost on cue there was the all too familiar clatter of some odd kitchen tool— A flat-spat was your first guess based on past experience— being whipped across the line in a fit of rage that even toddlers couldn’t achieve. If the kitchen manager was already this worked up before rush even properly started it was going to be a long damn shift. Both you and your dish-washing coworker stared at the kitchen entrance, wincing when another tool felt the chef’s childish wrath. 

“Don’t have much of a choice,” you finally replied quietly enough to keep it between the two of you. “But thanks for asking, man, I really appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it,” your coworker acknowledged, his hand clapping your shoulder companionably. He led the way into the kitchen, to which your greeting was only broody silence and complaints about lollygagging as you shrugged on your apron and made sure your hair was properly restrained.

You heard the tickets sliding into the rail as you were scrubbing your hands clean. “Hurry it up, I need you on line!” the Chef practically shouted. You caught the dishwashers eye and his rolled skyward before silently mouthing “sorry” your way. You just shrugged as the chef hollered your name.

“On my way!”

* * *

You weren’t sure when you went from being “relatively okay” to “absolutely shouldn’t be handling knives” status. You figured you were only really noticing the dizziness now because the dinner rush was over. You slipped out the back once you’d cleared the line and the dining room was quiet for your usual smoke break. The first drag of smoke made you splutter and cough with lungs that weren’t having any of your bad habits tonight. Cigarette shorted and back in your pack you stumbled back inside (you weren’t gonna suffer the cold if you weren’t having a smoke) and slid pathetically down your locker to sit on the floor. The tile was hard and cold and probably dirtier than it was supposed to be but you didn’t care. You were shaking where you sat, full body shivers that you couldn’t control. The world seemed to be spinning like a top. You closed your eyes and willed the dizziness to fade. 

It didn’t. 

Well, either you were sick or you were about to drop dead. It felt like a coin toss at this point. You were incapable of caring, it simply took too much energy.

“Hey.” Your eyes cracked open to be greeted with the dishwasher— Josh? Owen? Brad? You  _ really _ couldn’t remember this guys name and it was becoming awkward— was crouched in front of you. It struck you then how weirdly attractive your coworker was. The dishwasher was relatively the newest member of the team (He was only hired, what, two weeks ago? Details were not for people who felt like they were on a slowly turning carousel while they sat on a dirty tile floor.) but you’d spent a good portion of every shift at his side in the dish-pit and it hadn’t occurred to you until this moment as he smiled sympathetically. “How ya’ doin’, buddy? You’re, ah. Well, honestly, you look like shit.”

“I feel like shit,” you mumble back. You scooted back into sitting just a little bit more upright you thought you needed to look at least a little dignified. 

“You should head home, I can finish up here.” He could see you were about to protest and held up a hand, expression kind. ‘It’s dead out there and you’re sick, my dude. I got this.” He stood and offered his hand to help you up which you accepted after a moment of hesitation. This was...different. You weren’t used to being treated this way, with any sort of care or courtesy. And it was enough to admit that it felt nice.

Your co-worker helped you to your feet, hand not leaving yours until you’ve stopped wobbling. He stuck around while you slipped on your jacket and even bent to retrieve your beanie when your shaking hands lost their grip. You were headed out the staff door, but paused before leaving, turning back to the dishwasher. “Thanks for your help, ahhh...” and your squinting eyes must have given away the hamster running like hell in your head to power your failing memory. 

He just laughs at your bumbling, but not unkindly. ‘It’s Rigel.”

“Cool. Thanks Rigel.” You give him a weak wave as you push out into the world outside. ‘Have a good one, man.”

You’re not sure if when he goes back inside the restaurant, but you had the slightly unsettling feeling of being watched as you slowly made your way home.

* * *

Getting your keys into the lock on your door was a challenge. You’d only ever missed your target this bad when you were drunk. You struggled long enough that you got your ghostly roommate's attention, however, and your door swing open unceremoniously. 

"Hey there, hotst-- Jesus Christ!" Beetlejuice stepped back as you clumsily crossed the threshold. He watched you struggle to shut the door behind you and ended up kicking it shut himself with a nervous giggle. You'd never been so grateful for your flat white apartment walls as right now, practically collapsing once you were safely inside. "You look like fresh death."

"Gee, thanks for noticing," you snarked back, unable to muster any real heat. Now, you have made up your mind to get yourself to your sofa and you took the necessary steps to do so (the necessary steps being...actual steps). However, you just swayed uneasily as your dizziness reached its crescendo; you pitched forward and you were falling hard and fast. Any moment now you were gonna meet your floor face first and you were hoping that you’d luck out and land on carpet instead of the hard linoleum that framed your entryway.

But you didn’t hit the ground. Your new roommate caught you up in his arms with a startled “Oh, shi—!” You tried to apologize but your throat was so sore, and the exhaustion...it was in your bones making them ache. This feeling of tiredness drug your eyelids down to invite the unconsciousness your body needed to heal. “I know I’m a catch but you don’t have to literally fall for me, babe,” the ghost chuckled before slinging your arm around his neck. He began slowly walking you toward your bed, his tone dropping conspiratorially. “And there are a hell of a lot easier ways to get me into bed.”

“It’s rude to tease the dying, you jerk.” you groaned. Laughter quietly rumbled against your side. You accepted his help though. In part because you had no choice, it’s not likely you would’ve made it anywhere but your apartment floor with the state you were in. The next large chunk of “Why am I allowing this” pie-chart read “no energy to argue with a dead guy”.

The final piece of that pie chart was a thin slice labeled “Feels nice, man”.

At some point you remembered to kick your work shoes off your feet, thank God, or you would have woken up to a load of laundry that needed doing. You flopped into bed with all the grace of a newborn foal, your pillows blessedly cool against your fevered skin. You heard a snap of fingers and your comforter swallowed you up. You grimaced and wanted to pull the heavy duvet down so you could at least get some fresh air, but again your roommate beat you to the punch. Knuckles cold from death dragged accidentally across your cheek as Beetlejuice pulled your comforter down just enough.

“Thought you said you didn’t wanna be alone. Didn’t know I was signing up to be a babysitter.” the specter teased, his gravelly voice quiet. It was another considerate thing that if you were in a better state would make you toasty and comforted inside. There were a few moments of silence where you just sniffled and coughed and tried to catch your breath. “Bet that’s the last time you take a nap in a graveyard, huh?”

You tried to laugh, the noise a pitiful wheeze that devolved into another coughing fit. He had the audacity to look giddy at the sound with just the tiniest touch of sympathetic. “It was just a shitty night.”

“Yeah, you told me, babe.”

“But it got better...” you rasped quietly, shyness covering you much like the comforter that kept you from feeling like you were spinning into the abyss. It took several quiet moments, the only sound the slight rattle of congestion in your lungs, before you looked cautiously up. The messily curled tips of the demon’s hair were painted pale pink, his eyes comically wide and staring down at you.

“You want me to kill your boss?” Beetlejuice blurts out without any preamble. Now is your turn to stare shocked for a few a split second before you broke into another fit of coughing riddled laughter. 

“I appreciate the thought but— Aha, oh my God,” you wheeze, tears of mirth stinging your eyes that you scrub away with a weakly balled fist. He gives you a wide, toothy grin. “That’d really just make my life harder until they hired whatever asshole they’d replace him with.”

“Well, it’ll be a standing offer, then.” Beetlejuices’ expression softened for just a second, a glimpse of something you hadn’t seen from him in the month or so you’d known him, before he looked away to stare into nothing. He simply sits at the edge of your bed watching nothing in particular, a silent presence, until you couldn’t fight off the sleep anymore and finally drifted off. 

* * *

Your apartment was silent as the grave when you finally wandered back out of sleep’s embrace.

You sat up carefully, slowly, expecting the dizziness that had plagued you the day before and every other protestation your ill body had put out. You were definitely still ill but your body was blessedly silent on the matter. You’re penance had apparently been paid. 

It wasn’t until you swung your legs over the edge of your bed that you remembered you hadn’t changed your of your work clothes the night before. And your bladder had suddenly made itself known. You toddled unsteadily to the restroom and went through your usual morning routine, but inverted as you changed out of your work clothes and into your pajamas. When you wander back out of the bathroom the apartment is still and silent. 

Where was Beetlejuice?

You try not to think about it. You grabbed your phone for your usual morning scroll before wrapping yourself in the fluffy throw blanket you kept draped over the back of the sofa. There’s a short scavenger hunt for your TV remote before you’re flicking it on to watch...whatever. It’s only noise as you check Twitter for whatever pointless thing is trending today, followed succinctly by your email inbox.

You finally notice a text notification on your phone, which was odd. Mainly because any real social relationships had fizzled to the point of polite hellos at the holidays and not much else. You tapped the little envelope with a frown. You didn’t think you could’ve slept so long you forgot about a major holiday, but stranger shit has happened. Your new roommate was allegedly a demon from Hell, so really who knew anything anymore? Your frown deepened when it was a message from an unsaved number, but it at least had a local area code. You pushed any thoughts of pranks or chain e-mail that vaguely threatened to curse you and clicked the message open.

“ _ Hey, It’s Rigel from work.  _

_ Boss-man gave me your number so I could check-in on you. _

_ You think you’ll make it for your shift tonight? _ ”"

Huh. That was an interesting new flutter in your stomach. You hadn’t had that feeling happen since high school. Granted that feeling usually ended in disaster. However, the little thrill it gave you to receive a text from your thoughtful coworker who also happened to be conventionally attractive was not an unwelcome feeling. 

You quickly save his number in your phone before typing up a reply.

“I’m dying and I think I slept for ten hours lol

I can text chef and ask to call-out for the night.”

It was less than a minute before you got a reply.

“He’s here with me, he saw your text.

He says stay home cuz “you’ll slow service down” lmao”

You laughed quietly at your phone, sending back a couple of emoji’s with a short “Thanks, my dude” for lack of a better response. Dammit, you needed to build a reaction image cache asap if you were gonna possibly have a friend again. 

Holy shit. Did you have a friend? Had you, somehow, successfully made a friend?

You got caught up in that thought and then many things happened all at once.

There was a cacophony of sounds, a heavy thump and the deafening clatter of your mountain of empty tin cans as they were flattened or sent rocketing out at odd directions, as Beetlejuice seemed to materialize from your ceiling and fall back-first onto your cluttered stove top. If that wasn’t enough, with you panicking and stumbling into the kitchen, he tried to sit up and only succeeded in flailing off the stove and onto the floor taking your boxes of cereal with him and showering you in your favorite generic foods. 

“Are you—” You don’t even get the words out before the specter has shot to his feet, eyes wild and expression animated.

“Hey there, Hotstuff!” He shouts. His volume alone makes you flinch, and if that hadn’t done it his sudden encroachment on your personal space did. He ducked down to your same height, all hunched shoulders and fidgeting fingers, as he got nose to nose with you. You couldn’t remember the last time a person had been this close to you...well, save for the past two nights when Beetlejuice had helped you to bed or held onto you while your bawled your eyes out. Okay, so maybe you had but had wasn’t the point. He glanced down and back up again in the blink of an eye, his manic grin becoming a confused frown. “Ah, don’t tell me I missed out on you getting naked.”

“Wh— No, what the fuck?” You cry out with an outraged whoop of laughter. “I just got comfy, Beej, what the hell are you on?”

You were trying to crack a joke. But the ghost’s grin just got wider and he bounced in place, a ball of unstoppable energy. “Coke, mostly.”

“You’re not serious,” you shoot back, jaw dropped.

“As a heart attack, dollface.” You take a short step back and he just follows, seemingly incapable at the moment of slowing down. This wasn’t what you had in mind when you Beetlejuice had pitched the whole “Ghost roomie for the summoning available” idea to you. Shit, how had you known this guy only a little over a month and this was the first time hard drugs had come up? 

Would it have changed the outcome?

Not really. What harm could it really do? The guy was already dead. And, you supposed, he hadn’t done them in the apartment. So, no hard no foul this time, at least. Since he was following you like a bumbling puppy you simply led him to the sofa and plopped down, his hands tugging at your T-shirt and jittery to get your attention as he rambled aimlessly. He practically launched himself into the cushions beside you. Once he’d come down you’d have to set up some ground rules.

For the time being you listened to him launch into a diatribe about the reality TV show that had been running all this time. He seemed as wound tight as an eight day clock, but eventually he went quiet at your side. You figured he was falling asleep, but hadn’t he mentioned the dead don’t sleep a night or two ago? Didn’t matter, you supposed. He was quieting down and that meant a come-down you didn’t envy. 

You draped the fluffy blanket over his lap, sharing the warmth it provided with your silently resting roommate, as you watched phony reality TV shows that were over-embellished.

You quietly enjoyed every minute of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your lovely comments! I super appreciate all of you for taking the time to leave a comment on this silly little story of mine, and to hear it's going over so well makes my day. 
> 
> Going forward I'll be sure to make not in the chapter summary if said chapter is going to angsty in the "reader and BJ have conflict and it's written to be sad" sort of way, so I hope that eases anyone who's worried about the angsty bits ahead.
> 
> And the next chapter will be up either tomorrow or the following day depending on what all happens. And y'all? It's gonna be a ~fluffy~ one.
> 
> See you soon!


	5. The Amish Mob and Honesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beetlejuice and reader have a fun night in.
> 
> I'm sorry it took me so long to get the chapter posted, but I hope you enjoy!

At some point the TV show “Hoarders” came on during your silent vigil at Beetlejuice’s side. He’d passed out only a few minutes after his crash began and had been slumped against your shoulder, jaw hanging open and snoring obnoxiously. Even his nonliving body had some sort of limit and the ghost met it full force. You could sit still for only ten or so minutes before the images of clutter and built up dirt made you antsy. A single close-up on a group of cockroaches was the catalyst that sent you into motion.

You were gonna clean today, dammit, even if it killed you.

After carefully helping your inebriated friend to a more comfortable horizontal position and covering him with the snuggly throw blanket you quietly set to work. You jostled a few plastic bags from the stash you kept in your broom closet and began rounding up all the cans, relegating them to their own bag, before you went around collecting all the recyclables. In the quiet rush of tidying up you found your tea kettle camouflaged by a stack of instant noodle cups. You had been wondering where that had gotten off to. 

Fuck it, tea time too. You were on a “functioning adult” roll today and you weren’t going to take that for granted.

Your various snack foods found their appropriate homes lining the shelves of a neglected cabinet, your work habits taking control and helping you create orderly rows. The kettle got a quick once over, rinsed inside and out with hot water, before you set the stove top to high and left the water to boil. You spent the minutes waiting by scooping all of your junk mail into one big bag destined for your recycling bin, all the other odds and ends (some paper clips, a couple of pens, three rubber bands, and a half used stack of sticky notes) ending up in a small piece of plastic Tupperware at the end of your counter. By the time you’d gone over every flat surface with disinfectant wipes your kettle began to whistle. 

There was a growl from across the room and you looked up to see a very groggy ghost slowly rising in place. He ran a hand through hair that was a darker shade of sickly green than he usually wore, the color shifting with the drag of his fingers back to a more electric hue at the frazzled tips. 

“Good morning.” You kept your tone even, eyes never leaving him as he looked around, seemingly confused by his surroundings. You pulled two non-descriptive coffee mugs down from the cabinet opposite the the ones that held your meager foodstuffs (one of three, total) and pulled the steam singing kettle from the bright orange electric coil on your cook top. “You look like you had a wild night.”

He grumbled something indecipherable, eyes squinting against the dim light to watch you from his place on the sofa. He was weirdly un-animated. In the relatively short time you had know Beetlejuice he had never looked quite so exhausted. You fished a couple of black tea bags from the tin, one for each cup, and made two cups of tea to your liking (a touch of milk and honey to finish). He continued to watch you, silent as the grave, as you brought yourself and the two steaming mugs of tea back to the couch.

“The fuck am I supposed to do with that?” He grouses, tired eyes narrowing at the offered gifted tea like it offended him. You pick up one of his hands and press the warm mug into his it, a twitch to one of his eyes. 

“You’re supposed to drink it,” you reply with a low voice, eyebrows raised with the insistent expression your mother would give you as a child. “It’ll give you a little pep in your step, old man, just drink up.”

“Old man?” he echoed back in disbelief, humor finally coloring his voice, as he feigned clutching pearls like an outraged old woman. You plopped down beside him with a grin and quietly sipped your tea. “Didn’t know you had it in ya to be so vicious, babe.” He paused long enough to sniff the tea and take a cautious taste. After the first he took another eager gulp and you wondered then if the scalding heat didn’t affect the dead man the same way it affected you. “Respect.”

You snorted into your tea, elbowing him carefully in the side. The two of you watched the scene play out on TV, crews of various people in faux hazmat suits filing like ants in and out of the overstuffed home, toting away literal wheelbarrows of garbage. Out of the corner of your eye you can see Beetlejuice flick his index finger and the channel changed with the movement. He did it again and again, pausing for a few moments between flicks to evaluate whatever crossed the screen; New, flick, commercial, flick, home shopping, flick. He landed on another channel running a reality competition, but not a sport like baseball or football. Oh no, this was the kind of show where poor saps were lured in with the chance at “A Million Dollars” if the could just get through all the challenges. Currently the contestants were running some sort of demented race where any number of unrealistic obstacles sent them flying into a muddy pool of what you hoped was water.

But you sat side by side and watched, Beetlejuice firing off inappropriate comments about “Wet T-Shirt contests” and “That guy got it square in the nuts, holy shit!” and how, overall, the tortures of the mortal world were competing with those of the afterlife. You’d both “Ooooh” in unison or break into raucous laughter, tears stinging your eyes as your new roommate’s elation made your own rise. 

It was...nice? You hesitated to label the feeling as “nice”. It was far to reductive for the cozy feeling of simply belonging you felt at your new friends side. Beetlejuice didn’t give you much time to contemplate that thought, however, fingers drumming a troubled beat against the ceramic of his now empty mug of tea.

“So, uh…” He cleared his throat awkwardly at your side. “Yeah, so, about last night.”

You leaned forward and set your mug on the battered old coffee table. “Yeah, about last night.” You cut a glance his way and he was giving you a nervous grin as though he was bracing for a reprimand. Granted, giving him (a small) piece of your mind had been your plan, it was easy enough to sympathize with going just a little farther than you expected and landing yourself in a heap of trouble.

He’d saved you from such a situation a few nights ago, after all.

“How’d you fall through the ceiling? Scared me half to death.” He blinked at you, eyes wide with surprise, before bursting out with laughter. 

“I fell through the ceiling? Man, that must’ve been one hell’uv’a boot that kicked my ass back here!” He grinned at you, the two of you having a good laugh at his expense, before the silence stole back in between you both. Not that it was uncomfortable. On the contrary, you couldn’t remember the last time you had felt so at ease sharing silence with another person.

You sip your tea thoughtfully, a slow grin tugging at your lips, as you stated, “You did ask about me getting naked.” He spluttered for a split second before regaining his composure; the sort of suave facade he’d wear that was always attached to a punchline.

“And did you?” He leered with a lazy smirk. You just snorted a laugh into your cooling cup of tea. 

“Guess you’ll never know.” He groaned dramatically, sliding down in his seat until the lower half of his body was effectively on the floor, a hand over his heart as though you had wounded him. You just smiled, wide and shit-eating and full of mirth, as you relaxed back into your seat, one leg slung over the other. “But really, you think you’re gonna make a habit of coming home...like that?”

He sobered at your question and (you were pleased to see) seemed to really think it through. His brow was furrowed and eyes averted, his lower lip being worried nervously between his teeth.

“Just needed to unwind, babe,” he finally replied with a strained sigh, and when he looked back up at you he had the decency to look chagrined. “If it bugs ya I can crash somewhere else next time around.”

But you were already shaking your head. “Nah, it’s not like that Beej. Just, I dunno...maybe a heads up next time?” Your bare feet shuffled against the carpet. You felt the demon shift at your side, scooting up to sit at the edge of his seat; you had his full attention. You tapped the rim of your mug awkwardly, teeth worrying your lower lip. ‘Wondered where you’d gone. Wondered if you were gonna come back.”

The tension swelled between you. The silence was a heavy, palpable presence in the room. You could feel his eyes on you, could feel them boring holes in the side of your head as though he could look right into your head and see your mind. Hell, maybe he could. Either way you started to get the distinct feeling you’d given too much away. What if your honesty annoyed him? You try to tell yourself "it shouldn't matter", but it does. What if your smothering was too much to bear? You knew your tendency to cling to these feelings of belonging, no matter how fleeting, had cost you friendships in the past. And before you could squash the though it grew into panic; bubbles of fear bouncing around your gut. You took in a deep breath, painted on a stage-bright smile, and brought both of your hands down to your thighs with a slap.

“I mean, at least invite me next time, my dude.” You continued with cheeriness inappropriate to the vulnerability you’d just showed. “I’m not down for hard drugs or whatever the hell you got messed up on last night, but I can hold my liquor.”

Beetlejuice either didn’t notice your change in demeanor or he picked up on your cues and graciously followed along because he wore a wide grin when you finally turned to face him. Either way, you were grateful. “You think so, huh?” There was a mischievous glint in his eyes that made your stomach do a back flip. You just gave him a nonchalant shrug in return. “Then what the hell are we waitin’ for?”

The ghost with the most jumped to his feet, arms outstretched wide. “Let's get wild, baby!”

You giggle, the soft sound quiet and a wry smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. “I’m still technically sick, y’know.” You snuggle back into the lumpy sofa. “Not all of us have the luxury of being too dead to care about sickness.”

  
  


“Eugh, you’re no fun,” the ghoul grouses.

“Not all of us have in this apartment are dead and immune to liver failure, BJ,” you reply, hands held up in mock-defense. He just continues to pout with a curious tilt to his head. “And you got wild enough for the both of us last night.”

Beetlejuice deflates for just a moment. Something in you bends a bit under the weight of his pleading puppy-dog gaze, but he gives up the act when you just stare expectantly back up at him. “Rain-check?” Beetlejuice asks hopefully, two finger guns at his hips. You sigh, a greatly put-upon sound, and stare at your popcorn ceiling and mentally flip through your calendar.

“My next night off work should be a few days from now…” You offer hesitantly. “We can do some drinking when I get off work that night, maybe?”

When you refocus on your ghostly roommate he’s fist-pumping like some meathead dude-bro. He halts his celebration when he catches you giggling behind your hands, but that doesn’t wipe that bright smile from his pale face. 

“It’s a date, babe!”

* * *

You have a feeling this is a decision you’ll regret. “Liquor cabinet is above the fridge,” he’s already bounding over, the cabinet door flying open with an impatient snap of his fingers. “And for the sake of my liver please bring over a mixer for me.”

Beetlejuice turned half-lidded eyes on you, lips puckered and mocking. “What happened to “I can hold my liquor ``?'' 

You had returned to work and dealt with all that entailed; reassuring everyone you weren’t contagious and the belittling talk from your boss, working way to hard for far to small of pay, and putting up with temper tantrums from a bunch of adults who were grown and should have known better. Work could always be summed up as “Same Shit, Different Day” for you. Your new work buddy Rigel made things a little more lively at the cafe as well, thank goodness, which helped your shifts go by faster than a snail's pace. The two of you would quietly go out for conveniently overlapping smoke breaks and end up trading stories and jokes when you worked in tandem at the dish pit. You even took the time to show him a few of the kitchen basics when your boss was out of the kitchen and your rail was empty.

He joked that if you kept training him in secret eventually the two of you could overthrow the mad kitchen king. The idea never failed to bring a smile to your face, but there was something else that kept you pushing so hard through the week.

You’re little “date” with Beetlejuice.

You tried not to let the word “date” get to you. He said flirty things like that all the time. Granted sometimes those flirty said things made butterflies swoop about in your stomach. Things like “Hey there, Hotstuff” or “Love the enthusiasm, doll”.

Or, y’know, “It’s a date, babes”.

You tried not to dwell on the thrill that sent through you.

You had diligently worked each night, counting down to your next day off with increasing levels of excitement, until the night finally came. It was Wednesday, and you would have the entire day and night off the following Thursday. In preparation for tonight's festivities you’d even done all of your necessary baking ahead of time, the standing freezer you usually filled with cookies each holiday season full to bursting with baked goods. Nothing was going to keep you from enjoying tonight to the fullest with your spectral roomie.

You worked at double speed through your nightly close up routine, your co-workers cracking wise about “Looks like someone’s excited”. You just assured everyone that you were excited for a day of peace and quiet. 

No one judged you when you practically ran out the door at the end of your night.

And that's how you found yourself in your current predicament; bundled up on your coach under a fleece throw blanket, four strong mixed drinks in and they're starting to hit hard. You were just getting to the stage of "I can't feel my teeth". Beetlejuice hadn't bothered with thinning the liquor, taking pulls straight from the bottle, the showoff. The pair of you had started on opposite ends of the sofa but that hadn't lasted long between the bouts of uncontrollable laughter. At some point you'd laid back and he'd pulled your legs up to lay over his lap as if it were the most natural thing in the world. If you had been sober you would have ribbed him endlessly for being such a touchy pervert, probably even put some distance between you. As it stood you couldn’t be bothered to move away from the casual touch. It was comfortable, dammit, and the easy intimacy was equally so.

The TV screen dims from whatever commercial had been playing before upbeat music kicks in. Today’s hearty helping of reality TV is “Real Mob Wives: Amish-Land” and the two of you had found this gem mid-marathon. You took a careful sip, aware that everything felt a little floaty and you’d have to be patient or end up wearing your drink, as the lively cymbal beat leads into some sort of weird sinister country music, heavy on a steel guitar and twangy banjo. Abigail, one of the wives of the Amish equivalent of a Don, bemoaned her familial ties while she glanced out of frame (presumably to read her cue card). Your breaking point came when she talked about how her uncle Aloyisus had been sat on by a horse. You snorted into your drink, gasping for air as you fumbled not to drop your half full glass. Beetlejuice chuckled at the TV, or at you (Either option was possible and your were enjoying this buzz far too much to care) before knocking back another swig from the whiskey bottle.

The scene shifted unexpectedly to a woman crying, leaning up against a tree. She was sniffling pitifully and kept looking up and down and all around. A man named Levi popped onto the screen and in a strangely robotic cadence explained that his dear sister Bertha had been left bereft and broken-hearted by some “no good Englishman”. You rolled your eyes at the display.

You must’ve been caught condescending because Beetlejuice hummed conspiratorially, his idle fingers now drumming thoughtfully against your shin. You shot him a curious glance, one eyebrow arching in silent question, but he just shrugged noncommittally.

“Seems weird that you’d judge someone getting left alone, Tootse.” he pointed out. Not unfairly, mind you, but the fact that he even compared you to the probably paid actors on your TV screen rankled. “Although maybe you’re just more of a bastard than I thought. Hey!” He caught onto your retreating legs and placed them back onto his lap. “No judgement here! Just nice to know I’m not the only demon in the house tonight.”

“It’s all bullshit though.” You counter, the hand holding your drink threatening to spill over the edges when you point at the television. “All of it’s made up, Beej. There’s absolutely nothing real about reality TV.”

You surmised from his baffled expression that it hadn’t occurred to him. He frowned at you, then at the drama unfolding on the LCD screen, before turning in place to face you fully. “You really think that?” He asked the question with such sincerity you were thrown. 

“Of course it is.”

“But how do you know?” He pushed back, brows furrowed with his confusion as he turned back to the screen. “She’s crying just as hard as I’ve seen you cry. How can you know it’s made up?”

You balk in the face of that question. Well hell. You definitely didn’t have an answer because you definitely didn’t know if they were acting. You had always made the assumption that reality TV was about as real as processed cheese. You always compared the compulsion to embellish your own life for public consumption, and you had simply assumed everything was painted over with a shiny varnish of acceptability. You and Beetlejuice watched and listened as the man named Levi promised his sister he would always be there for her, no matter the sensitive condition she was in and no matter how the rest of society looked at her or her shame. The thought of that being real? It made something you’d kept buried ache. 

You hadn’t expected your fun drinking-buddies night to take such a turn. It had been a very long since you’d been called out on anything really. The only reason it had been so long since you’d been called on your pessimism was because no one had been around at that time. 

Maybe that pessimism was why you felt the need to embellish in the first place, and why you couldn’t imagine anyone else in the world being authentically themselves.

“I mean,” Beetlejuice continued quietly, lips circling the mouth of the bottle as he pulled another dose of whiskey lazily. “If she were gonna lie about anything, why the fuck would she tell the world her parents hated her enough to name her Bertha?”

You shake your head and held your laugh at bay. He’d be too satisfied with himself, and the way he was not-so-subtly side-eyeing you said as much. Instead you tossed one of the lumpy old pillows that was tucked under your head at him. He batted the assault away with a manic giggle. 

You shot stupid jokes back and forth and shared the rest of the bottle as you continued your marathon. You didn’t bring up any falseness, and he didn’t bring up your hypocrisy. At some he wiggled his way over to you and helped you up against his side, one heavy wide arms framing your shoulders. You needed the stability now that the alcohol you’d been imbibing in made the world tip on its axis and you were more than a little vocal in your thanks, babbling ‘You’re such a good friend, I’m so happy you’re my friend Beej, I just — ahh’ma’god, I’m just so happy you’re here”. Beetlejuice just giggles and agrees that yes, he was a pretty swell guy for a demon, and yes, you should be happy he was here. He might have also muttered something along the lines of "You're not so bad yourself, babe" but you couldn't be sure, not when everything was feeling warm and soft and fuzzy like you were wrapped up in cotton. Eventually you passed out at his side, head lolling ungracefully against his shoulder.

The demon didn’t move you from your position snuggled up against him all night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and your wonderful comments, they keep me going!
> 
> There's been a lot happening in my personal life and I'll be going on an overnight trip this Friday that I have to prepare for, so the next update probably won't be until Saturday, 11/16. I appreciate everyone's patience with this! This will also help me maintain that every/every other day posting schedule I'd like to have with this fic, so y'alls patience with this delaying will be a great help to me.
> 
> In the meantime! You can find me on Tumblr @ tarot-tea-trashmen , or on twitter @ DoodlesFori
> 
> Thanks so much y'all! I look forward to hearing from y'all in the comments! Kudos are appreciated as well, and the next chapter will be posted this Saturday on 11/16!


	6. Liked (Loved)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your night of drinking with your ghostly roommate leads to an interesting change in routine.
> 
> Hey there everybody, thanks for waiting so patiently! Hope you enjoy another chapter from BJ's perspective!

You were a liar.

Beetlejuice really liked (loved) that about you.

The ghost reflected on the past week and drunken evening you'd just enjoyed together while you slept at his side. He kept whittling away at that cheap bottle of whiskey, slow sips carefully taken to not disturb your sleep. You absolutely did not hold your liquor, you adorable little liar, and while the idea of watching you hopped on any number of drug laden cocktails he indulged in was an entertaining thought the demon wasn't willing to risk your fragile constitution. An adventure like that would probably kill you outright and that wasn't acceptable for a whole host of reasons. 

You snored against his shoulder, the sound obnoxious and delightful. Your sleeping form had no reservations on seeking out the curves of his body and clinging like a little drunk koala bear. One of his heavy arms raised and you moved closer, closing the small gap by burrowing against his side and mushed your cheek against his chest. Not that he minded. Quite the opposite, in fact. Beetlejuice didn't mind at all as you possessively wrapped an arm around his middle. And he certainly didn't protest your unconscious body taking liberties with his un-dead one as one of your legs soon followed to lay haphazardly over one of his. 

You were clingy in your sleep. Beetlejuice really liked (loved) that about you.

He could have melted at your subconscious displays of affection. The way your fingers tightened against his shirt in the midst of whatever dreams your brain had concocted. The way you murmured or grumbled when he made the slightest movement to pull away. He most definitely didn't try to ward you away, though that was a scary thought. Affection, that is. It went against his new mantra for a successful life; walls and distance and detachment. Self control had been decisively cut from the list. There’s just no way he was gonna make that one work.

It took all of five seconds for Beetlejuice's pleasantly buzzed brain to decide his mantra could shove off for the night. Then he could enjoy this...whatever this was, with you.

Goddammit, you are so _ warm _. Beetlejuice really liked (loved) that about you.

The demon had spent ages haunting and harassing all sorts of people but he couldn't remember the last breather he'd known to generate so much body heat. You could be a space heater wearing a very convincing person shaped costume and he wouldn't be surprised. The demon had the urge to touch you, to finally feel the texture of your hair or the softness of your skin, and he quickly gave in. The whiskey bottle was tucked between his free side and the cushioned arm of your sofa, destined to be forgotten in favor of other more fascinating things. Thick fingers brushed carefully over your crown, phantom breath held and expression one of forced casualness. Maybe if he pretended this wasn’t thrilling, if he wore a mask of impassivity, that would make it true. 

That mask split down the middle and crumbled to dust when the fingers trailed down your temple and then your cheek. _ Holy crap _. You left him utterly speechless as those hesitant fingers drifted down to the solidity of your jaw-line. Your skin was soft and as warm as the rest of you. When the demon touched you, like this, you felt like sunshine against his chilled body. If he had a heart it would racing. And if he had a heart it would be tempted to stop as his fingers trailed down to your neck and picked up the jump of your pulse. You sighed, the sound appreciative to his own addled mind, and pressed further into his touch. 

You were so very alive. Beetlejuice really liked (loved) that about you.

The inner voices (that always sounded terrifyingly like his mother for whatever God awful reason) spat hate to plague his thoughts. 

_ This isn’t for you. _

_ They would be repulsed if they knew what you were doing. _

_ You’re just going to use them and leave them behind, so why are you wasting your time with liking them so much, you pathetic excuse for a demon? _

There was a deep gravelly growl, the sound edged with old frustration, and his hand rose from where he stole these fleeting moments of connection. Your sleeping form tightened around the separation, arm around his middle and leg over both of his coiling tighter as though that could stop his retreat. Technically speaking, it couldn’t. It worked regardless however, the ghoul’s hand dropping back down to rest at your shoulder. He'd blame it on the whiskey later, but you were wonderfully warm and refusing to let go. Beetlejuice could admit he was selfish enough to stay put and bask in your affection. 

He didn't give in to any more temptations. But Beetlejuice didn't let you go while you slept the night away. 

* * *

You scared the shit out of him. 

That night you had stumbled in through the door earlier this week had triggered a sense of protectiveness he hadn't felt in months. It was the same feelings he had felt for the Deetz and Maitland families. He'd helped you into bed and tried (and failed) not to worry about your lack of energy, the fatigue in your muscles that had you leaning your full body weight against his flank for support. He cracked wise about going to your bed, but when your laughter turned to coughs that wracked your frame he'd only felt guilty. The demon had been planning to stay in for the night, y'know, in case you needed him.

But then you'd given your confession in such a soft voice. He recognized that careful tone. And to say he lost his cool was an understatement. He could feel a fire lit in the hollow where his heart lay still, could feel it slowly wash over every inch of him, and... yeah. Maybe offering murder wasn’t the smoothest move he could have made. 

But you’d laughed, the sound blanketed with a wet, rattling cough. He really liked (loved) your laugh.

And there were others things about you he liked (lov--)...No. Oh no, no no no, those waters were far too treacherous for the demon to wade into. That four letter word was an ocean full of primordial monsters that would devour him whole if he wasn’t careful. 

_ You _ were the monster. You would ruin him and any chance he had at his own little happily ever after. You were trusting, so fucking trusting and vulnerable, and _ holy crap _ it felt good to be relied on. Even if it was just a little bit.

And that’s what actually scared him. How much you trusted him, and how that trust was sincere. How much he liked (loved) that.

Beetlejuice ran like hell when that realization sank in. He’d spent hours at Dante’s Inferno, drinking and smoking and imbibing in all manner of drugs. Lesser demons tugged at his tie and he'd let his urges lead him to the backroom and all that entailed.

Maybe he'd pissed someone off. Or maybe it was the clones wreaking havoc and causing distractions so he could swipe a bottle from the bar. Or maybe the club runner had caught wind that Beetlejuice was essentially broke. Whatever the case, a big enough boot had punted his ass out of Dante's Inferno so hard Beetlejuice had gone sailing back into the mortal realm and crashing quite literally back to where he was now tethered: your shitty one room apartment. 

The demon had a very warped memory of everything that happened once his back destroyed your soda-can monolith. But the one thing he remembered was regretting being summoned by you, just for a split second, before the sight of your smiling face left him hypnotized. You laughed, even when he cracked wise in a feeble attempt to make you uncomfortable. It would have hurt a bit if you had been put off, but he could have handled it. It would have made him feel justified. By sabotaging whatever potentially friendly relationship the two of you could share it would have reinforced everything he was forcing down his own gullet; Walls, distance, yada-yada he'd said it a million times before. But you smiled and you laughed and you joked right back and he felt so very...wanted. You had been waiting for him the night you summoned him. You were waiting for him tonight as well, as he went on a drug fueled rampage and did his best to obliterate whatever soft-gooey center remained deep inside himself. Even though he was destructive, even though he was rude...You welcomed him back home.

He regretted being summoned by you because he liked (loved) coming home to you and your shitty one room apartment.

* * *

Beetlejuice was dozing, eyes half closed and staring blankly at the television, when you wriggled awake several hours later. He'd gone tense almost immediately, the warmth and calmness slipping away as panic welled up in their place. The demon tried to casually shrug off your embrace before you fully returned to your senses. 

"Beej…?" Too late. The demon gave you a smile written in nerves. 

"Hey there, Hotstuff." He swallowed hard around the lump of panic that burned in his throat. You sat up and away from him, and despite his stupid mantra and stupid walls and stupid rules, he mourned the loss of your weight against him. But then you settled back against his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. You relaxed against him and let your warmth spread into his un-dead body like a life giving sun. And he sighed, the sound shaky and exhilarated and terrified, because you just seemed to have that effect on him. “Goin’ back to sleep?” He queried as casually as possible. 

Spoiler alert: he sounded anything but casual.

“Nah,” you grumbled and your fingers twitched against his midsection. It was incredible that you made him so hyper aware. He could feel even the tiniest of movements, the twitch of a single finger enough to make his senses sing in discordant chorus. “Just adjusting.”

There were a few beats of silence where Beetlejuice didn’t have the faintest clue what to do, but then you spoke up again. “Oh shit,” You sat up and away from him and it took an unexpected amount of self control for the demon not to whimper at the loss. “Unless this isn’t okay, I ca--”

“It’s totally okay,” Beetlejuice interrupts, his fingers jumping with desperation to latch on and not let go against your shoulder. “Really. I don’t mind. At all.”

Twin patches of pink suffused your cheeks and crossed the bridge of your nose. The corner of your lips quirked into a smile and-- Ah, dammit all, there was that incredibly distracting canine again, with it’s point that the demon was sure could leave a mark behind if you applied just the right amount of pressure. His eyes never left your mouth as you quietly replied “Okay”.

* * *

“You sure about this, babe?”

“I mean, yeah, if you are,” you reply cagily. He’s staring down at you. You’re sitting on the edge of your bed. 

How had one drunken night of bonding a week ago lead you both here?

After that night your relatively dull lives continued. The only change in scenery had been the ghost with the most accompanying you on a trip to the twenty-four hour grocer to load up on snack adjacent foods (you had admirable adoration for breakfast cereal) where Beetlejuice had let his mischief loose on the unsuspecting public. You had enjoyed all his gags, or at least your laughter led the demon to believe you enjoyed them, even as you tried to quickly clean up any of the messes he left in his wake. But that was the only difference until two nights ago. 

Beetlejuice had been engrossed in a fashion competition on TV when you’d returned home from your shift that night. The demon had been about to greet you when he saw the state of your face. Your eyes were red and puffy and there were bright red splotched tear stains down your cheeks.The demon saw red.

“Who did it?” He had growled and launched himself from the sofa towards you. Your immediate reaction was to shrink away, your shoulders rising and your arms folding over your front, and it only made the demons anger grow. He knew his damned body was giving him away if your wide-eyed stare was anything to go by. Hell, the anger roared through him like wildfire, he knew his mood-ring mop of wiry hair had to be equally scarlet. 

You had protested, as usual, of course, with your squeaked responses of “I’m fine, it’s okay” and all that bullshit you’d said before. He’d become well acquainted with your diversions over the past weeks of cohabiting. Beetlejuice had never been more fed up with a single breather in his entire afterlife. 

“Why the hell are you lying? You know I have eyes, yeah?” He circled his index finger in front of your face. You grimaced, eyes narrowing to a glare. Beetlejuice glared right back at you. “Go ahead and be mad, Tootse, but that doesn’t change that you’re a shitty liar and I’m not fuckin’ blind!”

You’d crumpled beneath his unbridled anger, the dam that held your emotions at bay crumbling, before you told him all the shitty things you’d suffered at work. And he held his silence with no small degree of effort, his teeth digging into his tongue, with every new piece of the puzzle you’d given him. The names you’d been called by this enigmatic figure you only referred to as “chef”, the way he threw shit around just to startle you, and the way "chef" demeaned you and your work. That fiery, out-of-control rage was much more dangerous and subdued, reduced to a ball of white hot flame that always ended in rash decisions.

“I really can just kill that fucker. You know that, right?” Beetlejuice deadpans. You sniffled a pathetic excuse for a laugh, the sound thick with fresh tears. He had the urge to grip your chin, which he easily gave in to, and tilted your head up to meet his gaze. “And I will, babe. Say the word, it’s done. Asked and answered and all that shit.”

"That not really flattering, Beej," you laugh, heels of your palms scrubbing roughly over your eyes. "The guy is an asshole, but he's got family and friends--"

"Pfft, not fuckin' likely..."

"And he hasn't done anything that I haven't dealt with before." You reached up, your the palm of your hand cupping his cheek, and he felt the smoldering embers of his rage fizzle and die. Beetlejuice's body moved of it's own accord, his hand rising to cover yours where it rested against his cheek. He felt helpless. With you, with all these little problems that plagued you, with the way he desperately wanted to help and you seemingly wouldn't let him. 

"Then what can I do?" He grumbled, expression contorting as though he were in pain. In a way, he was. He couldn't remember the last time he had so ardently wanted to help anyone, let alone a breather. Lydia Deetz flitted through his brain, a disturbance he quickly shut out. Man, his whole "new life mantra" really wasn't worth shit when he saw you like this, was it?

Beetlejuice was so lost in thought it took his brain some time to catch up. He was just a smut-book sized sneeze away from embracing you, your midsection nearly flush with his, and while he had been thinking a bright blush had risen on your cheeks. He really should take a step back. So should you. Why hadn't you taken a step back?

"I, ahh…" You hesitated, eyes darting back and forth between both of his. Jesus Christ, you had beautiful eyes, too. You were upsettingly attractive, you absolute monster, and the way your voice trembled held his attention. "You remember how we, uhm...we kinda fell asleep together the other night?"

"You mean when you passed out?" That startled a laugh out of you. His face split into a grin at the sound. "Yeah, babe, I remember."

"Well, I was just...I was just wondering, ahh, if we could, uhhm...m-maybe do that again?" Your teeth hooked over your lower lip, worrying the petal nervously as your. 

He wanted to kiss you.

Oh. 

Oh no, '_ fuck me running' _, the demon thought to himself in his panic, Beetlejuice wanted to kiss you.

That realization made his hands drop like bricks of lead to his sides. You took a startled step back, your eyes wide, and he could tell your mouth was already full of apologies. A manic giggled doused in panic escaped him. "No, totally, I mean, yeah, yeah yeah yeah, cool, that's totally, uh, cool," he babbled, uncontrollably. There were voices screaming in his brain, all at once, repeating "Distance! Detachment! Self con-Fucking-trol!" 

They were still chanting, phantom voices horse, as he stared down at you where you sat on the edge of your mattress. You climbed in and the demon hesitated, phantom heart beating wildly in his chest. Those screaming thoughts were instantly silenced when you reached out to him, palm up and open and waiting to be taken on his. 

He didn't hesitate after that.

You had slept through the night and done all of the things he really liked (loved) about you. You had latched on, your sleeping form laying claim. You were warm and heavy and the weight of you seeped into his un-dead bones. You murmured and cooed and even snored softly a few times. You made his carefully constructed walls start to crack, hairline fissures formed from the emotions you agitated out of his cynical soul.

You were an awful, wonderful, soul consuming monster. He really liked (loved) that about you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading everybody, I really hope you liked it! Next chapter will be up by Wednesday 11/20 if everything goes according to plan! The story is about to really kick into high gear, so the next few chapters might be longer than before and that's the only thing standing in the way of making my own set deadline. But, with that said, I am doing my best to committing to a schedule so that I actually finish everything I have planned, without years between updates. I will be working very hard to get the next chapter written and posted by Wednesday!
> 
> As always, bookmark so you don't miss an update, kudos are appreciated, and I'm grateful for all the lovely comments y'all leave. Hope y'all have a good rest of your weekend, and see you Wednesday!


	7. Lovers Quarell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader comes to some realizations, and things get a little tense.
> 
> A quick content warning for those of you who do not want to reader angst or conflict! In this chapter there will be a small conflict with the reader and Beetlejuice. Secondary content warning! There is also a depiction of manipulation in this chapter. I hope this helps those who need it! With that, I hope you enjoy chapter seven!

You really liked Beetlejuice. Like, really, really liked him.

It had become a habit, this cozying up and slowly dozing off together each night, and it was nice. Worryingly nice. For the past several days you’d either fall asleep on the sofa at his side watching late night TV or, on the nights where it took every ounce of your energy just to get home and keep your emotional composure, you’d crawl into bed and the demon would offer to snuggle up with you under the covers. You didn’t say no anymore. He didn’t make raunchy jokes about you inviting him to bed, either, which made the quiet companionship feel all the more intimate. 

You really liked Beetlejuice a lot because he seemed to understand that you slept more soundly with him at your side.

He would still crack-wise with all manner of blue language, the words sometimes so deplorable you’d be left red faced with embarrassment while you wheezed with laughter. He’d made a joke once about how you were “giving him a boner” before he handed you a conjured prop femur and you almost collapsed with the hilarity of it. The wide, toothy smiles he’d gift you when you lose control of your laughter always made your heart quicken. He’d tease you relentlessly sometimes, just to get a laugh out of you, and you’d wind up with tears in your eyes and breathless. 

You really liked Beetlejuice because he never made jokes at your expense, but he’d do just about anything to get a laugh out of you.

The demon also had a sense for those nights you walked in with the weight of the world you exist in bearing down on you. He’d keep his voice low. He’d keep a hand on your shoulder, the motion steadying and supportive. And on these nights he never suggested getting up to antics or scaring the locals. The ghost simply seemed to understand what you needed, and maybe that had developed over the last two months and change that he’d been living with you now, and you appreciated it.

You really liked how Beetlejuice showed he cared. And that terrified you.

This morning you had woken up in your bed next to a quietly dozing demon. Your head was carefully cradled at the junction of his shoulder and his neck. Your groggy, sleep addled eyes slowly took in the state you both shared; relaxed and rumpled from sleep. Your hand was laid against his chest. His hand covered yours, black lacquered nails at the tips of fingers that had curled slightly to hold yours as he slumbered. You glanced up to his face, slack with relaxation as he rested beside you, and in the sleepy silence of the early morning everything narrowed to this moment, this feeling. 

You wanted to kiss him.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. Oh no. This wasn’t supposed to happen, this  _ couldn’t _ happen. Beetlejuice was your roommate. At the absolute most you could hope to call him your friend. You shifted, a sudden font of pent up energy making you want to run for miles and miles, but the arm pinned beneath you came up to wrap around your shoulder and hold you place. He grumbled in his sleep, seemingly offended at your movement, the sound low and rough and making fire race through your veins.

You didn’t just want to kiss him. No, more specifically, you wanted him to kiss you.

You couldn’t possibly fall for a dead guy.

It took a little effort to extricate yourself from his grasp, his fingers digging in the slightest bit as you retreated. It was enough to make the demon slowly blink awake. He made that tired grumble that made your heart beat like an out of control jackrabbit. One yellow-green eye squinted opened, face scrunching up to reject the disruption of rejoining the waking world. 

“Babes?” You couldn’t look at him. You knew if you did the fire spreading across your face would definitely give you away. So you made a bid for the end of the bed, slipping clumsily off your rumpled sheets. “Where’s the fire?”

“Bathroom!” You replied a little too enthusiastically. You scuttled off to your tiny bathroom without looking back. You desperately hoped it was your imagination feeling his eyes following your retreating form. 

In the mirror your reflection greeted you; fading half moons under eyes wide from emotional panic, and bright coral splotches soaked into your cheeks. You huffed grumpily at the mirror, as if you were a silverback gorilla intimidating a would-be predator, and both of your hands clapped against the sides of your face. “Come on, get it together!” 

You shed your cozy outer shell, old sweats and t-shirt and under garments piling on the linoleum floor. The tiles lining the floor of your shower were icy cold against your feet. You fumbled to crank the faucet, temperature quickly going from freezing cold to searing hot. You stood quietly under the endless stream of water, heart still racing and mind struggling to keep up, and tried to process the epiphany that had struck you like lightning. How could you possibly like your ghostly roommate, like that? What had been the trigger? But every time you got a step closer to the answer your traitor imagination would make images flash through your mind; an embrace, a kiss, a devilish smirk as you’re backed up against a wall.

A gasp escapes you, the fire that started in your cheeks now spreading like wildfire is wont to do, to your neck and chest, and you leaned against the slippery tile wall. You don’t know what to do with your hands. Well, that’s not quite true. You know what you  _ want _ to do with your hands, but the idea of following that thought to the finish line makes your pulse pounding in your ears. How had you gotten here? Lusting after a ghost who was covered in grit and grime with the voice of a life-long chainsmoker and a stench to match? 

He was probably still waiting for you. Waiting in your bed.

You hiss with frustration, both hands reaching into your sodden hair and tugging. Now that you’d had these thoughts, felt these scarily strong feelings, how could you look him in the eyes?

Icy cold dread cuts through your daydreaming and anxiety. You were going to ruin one of the only friendships you had built in your adult life. Sure, the person in question was a demon, but that didn’t mean you didn’t value his friendship. In reality Beetlejuice had asked almost nothing of you. Just a bit of platonic companionship and a place to live that wasn’t some dingy old graveyard. Guilt washed over your heated skin like a pail of ice water. How could you risk ruining this? Why, because you’re lonesome and...well, attracted, to put it lightly? In your mind the odds were that you were the ghosts willing side-kick to the antics you helped him get up to in the outside world. Beetlejuice had mentioned something about dangers outside of your home-- Sandworms? Were you remembering that right? -- if he ventured out without you to latch onto. Maybe you were just a glorified taxi cab in human form? Maybe that’s all he really saw you as?

Then why did he sleep by your side? Why did he seem to care? Why was it that the way he looked at you made you want to do rash things?

You shut the questions down. Simply put, you couldn’t possibly impose a relationship beyond friendship on someone who relied on you for a modicum of fun from beyond the grave. Not to mention, he was dead. Even if he felt similarly (and he didn’t, you quickly reminded yourself) what would a relationship like that even look like? 

You stayed in the shower until the water began to run cold. You’d barely managed to wash your hair and scrub down before quickly rinsing under the now freezing stream of water. With a twist of the faucet you ended your excuse to keep hiding in the bathroom. You’d toweled off slowly and brushed your hair slowly and gotten dressed slowly. All of it was a feeble attempt to prevent the inevitable. 

When you finally re-emerged from the bathroom Beetlejuice was sitting under the wooly throw on the sofa, watching the television with wide-eyed interest. He noticed your exit, however, and gave a massive grin from across the room. “Thought you’d gone and fallen in, Hotstuff,” he teased. You chuckled nervously, hands stuffed awkwardly into your pants pockets. 

“Yeah, sorry.” you apologized automatically out of habit. 

Beetlejuice’s attention returned to whatever he was watching. You shuffled around your apartment to get ready for your shift at the cafe. It would be an uncomfortable couple of hours between now and when you left for work.

An idea struck you like a speeding bullet.

“Hey, so…” Beetlejuice looked back at you again. His hair was shifting in color again, dark roots turning to a shade somewhere between pink and red. You know what Red Beetlejuice means. He had made that abundantly clear on the two times you had seen him get really, truly angry. Had you made him angry? 

Did he sense that you were already lying to him?

“S-So, I’ve gotta go in early today.” His shoulders dropped and his eyebrows furrowed, his expression a strange mix of confusion, hesitation...maybe disappointment? You didn’t want to dwell on it, you’d already overthought so much today. You scrambled to pick up all of your work clothes, and if your fingers twitched with nerves you didn’t acknowledge it. You rushed back into the bathroom and got ready for work at record speeds. When you came back out and hurried into your coat and hat you caught the ghosts eyes. He was openly frowning now. Oh shit, he was sussing you out, time to bail!

“I’ll see you later, Beej!” You called out as you went racing out the door and away from your apartment.

* * *

Once you were a few blocks from your apartment it finally occurred to you that you had no idea what you were going to do with the handful of hours you had to wait until your shift started. And to top it off you’d been in such a hurry to escape any potential rash decisions you had not taken the time to enjoy your daily dose of caffeine. 

Well, that was one problem on a mile long list solved. You were thankful your phone had a full charge, and you even found a tangled old pair of wired headphones in your coat pocket. Perfect! You made your way across town to the coffee house on mainstreet. 

You wondered briefly why you didn’t come here more as you walked through the front door. It was clean, always smelled amazing, and the lattes they made were top notch. Their pastry case was enviable as well, something you took full advantage of when you placed your order; Latte with vanilla simple syrup, single shot of espresso for a little added kick, and a slice of apple tarte tatin. The barista, a lovely young lady with bright teal hair tied up in a messy bun atop her head, filled your order with a practiced speed that you could appreciate from years working in kitchens. 

You set up camp at a small table in the corner out of the way near a lopsided pile of old paperback books and a couple of small tabletop games. The tarte was incredible, and the latte was nearly too strong for you to drink, but you made slow work of it as the first thirty minutes of your stay ticked away. You were scrolling your phone, checking your neglected Twitter feed, when a shadow passed over your table and stayed there. You glanced up from the bright screen of your cell with a frown.

Your coworker Rigel was standing above you with a smile, a steaming of his own in hand. “Didn’t know you came round here,” he said by way of greeting. “Mind if I join you?”

“Yeah, of course!” You scooted your half empty mug back, tarte plate following suit. Your coworker too the seat opposite you. “Honestly, this is one of my first times here.”

“It’s a great little place. Great baked goods.” He held up his cup in a faux toast. “Better coffee.”

The two of you began to talk. You know, the idle pleasantries that you share with friendly acquaintances of circumstance. It gave you the opportunity to observe him without the rush of work around you. Without spending hours sweating in a hot kitchen or being sopping wet from the dish pit, your dishwashing friend cleaned up nice. His tawny blonde hair was shaved close on the sides and coiffed on top (You assumed this was fashionable at the moment, but you honestly didn’t have the foggiest idea if that were true), and his clothes were just as up to snuff. By appearances alone this was a person not on the same social strata as yourself.

And yet the more you talked the more comfortable you felt. Or rather, the more comfortable he made you feel. You both talked like old friends, just sharing silly stories. Or rather, you shared stories and Rigel patiently listened. It felt nice to be listened to. And all the while your companion wore a small, carefully guarded smile. 

“You seem...bothered,” he eventually said after a long sip of coffee. You purse your lips in thought and tried to avert your gaze, but you couldn’t. Something strangely magnetic about his stare held you captive. Well, you supposed, maybe a very pretty face just had that effect on you from time to time. “Tell me.”

A sigh gusts out of you, and you think better of saying anything...just before you spill your guts. “It’s my roommate. I’m worried because...well, honestly, I think I like him. A lot. At the least, a lot more than he likes me. And, I don’t know, it’s probably not right or something, and at least it’s not like I could, like...improve any aspect of his life if I brought it up, so I’m just feeling really shitty and guilty about it, I guess.”

Holy shit, where did that come from?

“Sorry,” You apologized on instinct, a flush rising to your cheeks. Great, now you've embarrassed yourself with word vomiting at your hot coworker. Absolutely brilliant. But Rigel dismissively waved a hand, as though that would pardon your egregious emotional unloading. 

“It’s fine,” he responded, the slight strain behind the words gave you the impression that it wasn’t. Either way he smiled at you, a flash of perfectly straight white teeth. “I appreciate you confiding in me.”

“Thank you for listening, I--”

“It must not be easy, having a crush on someone _ like that _ ,” he continued, glossing over your words, thumbs dragging thoughtfully across the thick ceramic rim of the mug in his hands. “I could help you with that.”

“What?” You squeaked, your own fingers tightening around your now empty coffee cup like it was a lifeline. Rigel smiled at you again, a slight tug at the corners of his lips, and he reached across the empty table space. His fingers came to rest against your wrist, his grip soft but seemingly inescapable.

“We could go on a date.” There was something about the tone of his voice that wasn’t a suggestion. “We could have a night out on the town. I’m sure whatever this infatuation you’re struggling with is will be taken care of.”

This couldn't possibly be happening. Your coworker was, in your estimation, way out of your league. He was probably just teasing you with the friendly veneer of offered help. But when you hesitated his fingers tightened against your wrist, and suddenly everything... shifted. Your mind was flooded with affirmations; Of course he was right. Going out on a date would solve everything. You just needed distance and someone else to show an interest in you and this little crush would melt like ice under hot water. Your mouth seemed incapable of forming words-- that must be the excitement, right? But you felt so calm, so incredibly at ease-- so you nodded your agreement instead. 

Rigel gave you a brilliantly wide smile, his eyes narrowing on you. "Perfect." He released you then, his hand retreating back to his half on the table, and he immediately began scrolling through his phone. "You're off tomorrow, right? I'll take you to my usual haunt, it's the Searels bar just up the road. Ever been?"

"N-No, I--"

"Excellent, you'll love it there. We'll meet there at eight sharp, okay?" His eyes left his phone then, something sharp in his gaze. Your head was spinning. And what was that sound? There was an electrical hum that was filling your head, the sound pitched high and growing louder.

"Sure, I mean, if I--"

"Good." He finished his coffee, stuffed his phone in his pocket, and stood beside you where you sat. His hand landed on your shoulder and then he was leaning in close. Something about his expression, a small quirk of his lips and heavy lidded eyes narrowed on you, made you feel uneasy. But by the time you grasped the feeling it had slipped away into nothing, that calm, clearly surety taking its place. "I'll be looking forward to it."

You don’t know how long you sat there, staring into nothing, but you felt as though you were escaping a thick fog cloud when you finally made a move to leave the coffee house.

* * *

You had worked through a relatively slow night. At the least, it felt slow. For some reason everything felt sticky and sedated, like the world around you was coated in molasses. And now you were walking home, feet dragging subtly against the cracked cement of the sidewalk, with the distinct sting of a headache coming on. That coffee you had earlier had done absolutely nothing for your energy. In truth you felt even more exhausted. All you wanted to do was go home, crawl into bed, and let sleep take you.

You pushed into your one room apartment and--

“Hey there, Hotstuff!”

You froze as the door shut behind you, wide eyes landing on your ghostly roommate. He was here. Of course he was, he was your roommate, and oh my God your head was really splitting--

“Babes? You aren’t lookin’ too good. Whud’ja do, go and get yourself sick again?”

You pressed both your palms to your forehead, which you were now realizing was slick with sweat, and tried to focus through the fog and the pain. Why hadn’t you thought he’d be here? How could you have possibly forgotten about Beetlejuice? You feel heavy hands at your shoulders. 

“Hey, h-hey, babes, look’it me--”

“I’m fine,” you growl in frustration. There’s a wellspring of anger you hadn’t expected and you have the sudden, terrifying urge to shove the demon away. You could tell by the expression he wore that he absolutely didn’t believe you. “Just a really weird day. Like, probably the weirdest day I’ve ever had.”

The ghost snorted a laugh and leads you to the kitchen, one palm settled against the dip on your back. “You summoned me a few months back, babes. I find it hard to believe that today was weirder than the day you summoned a demon from the afterlife.” Again you feel the sensation that you absolutely had to physically shove him away, seemingly from nowhere, but it was easier to resist this time around. At the end of the day this was your friend. He proved that as he parked you against the kitchen counter and reached past you for a coffee cup. And he proved it again as he filled it with clear, cold tap water before pressing it into your hands. “Hydrate, bitch.”

That startles a laugh out of you, and his grin is radiant, until you’re holding the side of your head and hissing with pain. “Ah shit, babe, you gonna make it?”

“After I hydrate,” you reply roughly. The two of you sit in silence until you empty your cup. Then the ghost refills it and you down that too. “Thank you.”

“Any time.” Beetlejuice replies instantly. He leans against the counter opposite you, arms crossed but seemingly collected. “So it was a weird day. What made it weird? The headache only a world-class hangover could cause?”

“I mean, yeah, but…” It only occurs to you then that you have a date tomorrow night. Hell, forget getting through your shift in a fugue state, how had you forgotten the hot dishwasher invited you out on a date? You wheedle, fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm against the ceramic mug in your hands, and seriously consider lying to Beetlejuice.

Actually, lying to him again. You’d already fibbed your way out of the house this morning. You didn’t want to get into the habit. You knew it’d only cause trouble in the long run. Besides that, going on a date with a man genuinely interested in you wasn’t a bad thing. What was there to lie about?

“Yeah, I got asked out for drinks today.” You paused there. Beetlejuice was...silent. Silent in a way that made you nervous, and when you finally stopped to really look at him you could see him tensing by fractions with each passing second. His tie had gone nearly black (it was the first time you’d noticed the splotchy colored tie actually change) and you could see the roots of his hair slowly shifting in hue. Like a chameleon crossing to a new surface, the change was gradual and slow, from deep evergreen to a dark garnet shade.

“Oh yeah? From who?”

You frowned at him, a slightly offended chuff of laughter escaping you. “Does it matter?”

“Yeah, it fuckin’ matters.” He replied just a little too sharply, his eyes narrowing to a glare. You returned his carefully bridled expression of rage with a much more open one.

"What the hell, dude?"

"Don't you fuckin' 'dude' me, dollface--"

“What, is it too hard to believe that somebody might be interested in me?” You practically shout at him across the very short distance between the two of you. His shoulders jump, the slowly creeping scarlet now devouring every strand of wild hair. “A guy I know asked my out, I said yes, and I’m gonna go have a good time with him tomorrow night, end of story!"

“Then what the fuck am I even doing here?!” 

He shouted so loud you would have sworn your cabinets rattled; glasses and dishes and foodstuffs all shuffling around behind their mostly closed doors. And then there was silence. The tension was a palpable presence in the room between you. A bubble swelling uncomfortably, heavy with questions and thoughts and feelings, waiting to be popped.

“I know I’m not alive, but…” Beeteljuice shuffled, gravelly voice dropped low and the fiery red of his hair slowly cooling to blue. You had only seen blue once before and it had involved some unexpected tears. Something inside of you broke at the thought of making him sad enough to cry. “But I’m living with you, and I’m sleeping beside you every night, and I’m here too.”

You huffed unsteadily, the rage you’d felt earlier wiped away as though it had never been there in the first place. He was staring at you under furrowed brows, mouth twisted in a grimace, and you wondered briefly why your heart was racing. Maybe it was the vulnerability you saw in his eyes. Or maybe it’s what he said next.

“And no, it doesn’t surprise me that someone would take you out on the town. If I was living I’d do the same damn thing.”

That little bit of unsure honesty struck you, a ton of bricks landing directly on your head from a tenth story window, and you wondered what he saw when he looked at you. Did he see the exhilaration in your expression? Or sense the way your heart raced in your chest, jackrabbit fast and picking up speed? “Really?”, you asked him quietly. The demon looked so tired he might collapse.

“Yeah, babe, or I wouldn’t have said it.” He straightened up then, head dipping to look you in the eyes. “I’m right here. And I’m gonna be, I’m tethered to you for fucks sake, so...I dunno what else to tell ya, dollface, I’m drawin’ blanks now--”

You held up a hand and Beetlejuice's mouth snapped shut with an audible clack of teeth. "Beej?"

"Y-Yeah?"

"I…" You nervously wrung your fingers, your teeth worrying you bottom lip nervously, something sticky sweet and hot pooling in your gut. "I'm sorry I yelled…"

The demon awkwardly rubbed at the back of his neck, all the wind stolen from his sails. "Yeah, I, uh... I'm sorry too, babe, kinda lost my cool there."

"And I'd really like that," you finished quietly. Yellow-green eyes snapped up to you and you swallowed hard around a lump of fear caught it your throat. "If we went out or something sometime, I mean."

Any evidence of the color blue was erased in an instant. The ghosts hair lit up vibrant pink like the plastic flamingos retirees liked to put up in their perfectly manicured yards. It was such an immediate shift the demon didn’t even notice at first, his entire body jolting a few seconds later like he’d been zapped by a live wire. “Yeah?”

You nodded and the lingering remains of your headache shook loose. The pounding of the migraine was replaced with the sound of your own slow, careful breathing as you tired to maintain your composure. It took no small amount of effort not to turn on heel and run right back out into the world. But nothing was ever gained by running away. You learned that when you took a chance summoning a surprisingly sweet ghost two months ago.

“Are ya still gonna go out with that chode that asked you out?” Beetlejuice asked, the tone of his voice brought comically low. You laughed, the sound bright and booming and the result of nervous energy finally being let loose. You shake your head as you chased happy tears from your eyes.

“Y’know, I’ve had a headache all night. Might have one tomorrow too.” Your eyebrows arch suggestively, a small frown tugging at the corners of your mouth. Beetlejuice just returned the expression with a smarmy grin.

“That’d be a shame, babe.”

“Yeah, it’d be a real shame.” You smiled down at the tops of your feet, your heart rate picking up frantically. “But if you really meant it...I dunno, maybe I’ll just have to reschedule with you instead. I mean, if you’re not busy or anyth--”

Beetlejuice tilted your head up to meet him, eye to eye, one curled finger tucked under your chin.  _ Oh my God _ , he was so  _ close _ . But you weren’t afraid of the prospect of being kissed, not like you were this morning. No, the idea of being kissed, especially (specifically) by Beetlejuice thrilled you to your core. He grinned lazily down at you, eyes heavy lidded and burning with something you couldn’t place.

“It’s a date, babe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for all of your incredible comments, they are all very motivating and moving! I always look forward to everyone's reactions to the story, and I'm so grateful for y'all who take the time to comment. Also...the fic has passed 1k views!!!! I'm blown away, thank you all so much!
> 
> So that everyone knows going forward, this is where the rubber really hits the road in terms of plot, especially in the next two chapters, and the romance (and eventual smut) will be coming up quickly now. I appreciate everyone's patience and I hope you're all enjoying the slowburn as much as I am enjoying writing this story!
> 
> The next chapter will be posted by Sunday 11/24 at the latest. Thanks y'all!


	8. Countdown to Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beetlejuice and reader prepare for their date.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy!

Today is Sunday. There are five days until a human and a demon go on a date.

Two souls sat across from each other at a kitchen island; a mortal and a demon, their earlier argument quickly faded from their minds. A pair of contradictions, your paths of existance diverging, never meant to intertwine, and yet...

And yet.

Both the human and ghost stare at their hands on the faux marble countertop. Yours are gripping each other, fingers threading and squeezing and relaxing repetitively as you tried to work through exactly what to say. The ghosts are like two parallel glaciers, wide and icy as the grave, with thick fingers tapping nervous rhythms or tugging nervously at coat cuffs. You both talked in low voices-- you’ve both yelled more than enough for one night-- about details. Details for the bigger picture, like what kind of restaurant you’d like to go to, or should the pair of you try going to a movie. And you both also talk about the little details; the flourishes that take a piece of art from masterfully made to breathtakingly beautiful. 

“It scares me a lot when people raise their voice. I’ve been yelled at a lot.” You confess quietly.

“Everyone always leaves me behind, so I...I dunno, I just get freaked out when it feels like I’m being replaced or forgotten.” He confides softly.

Two sets of hands, gripping and squeezing and tapping and shaking, drift together like two sheets of ice on a lake before spring arrives. The gradual pull together seems gravitational, inevitable, unstoppable. It starts with your pinky barely twisted around his. Now his hands are dwarfing yours, a tremor running subtly through his death chilled palms.

“I’m scared. It’s been a long time since I’ve, like...been this way with another person,” A small grin tugs one corner of your lip upward. He gets lost staring at the laugh lines cast by the low light. “And you’re dead, also.”

“Ah, you’ve finally seen through my clever ruse.” You laugh quietly. The sound makes something warm wrap around the hollow in the ghosts chest that would house a very human heart if he were living. “And here I was thinkin’ you thought I was just a really weird lookin’ dog!”

“Yeah, well,” you sigh, “I panicked. And I’m sorry I--” 

“Don’t need to apologize, babes,” he gruffed, voice like gravel kicking up under tires along a dirt road. “You already did, and you weren’t..._eugh_,” he grimaced comically, making you laugh again. “You weren’t in the wrong. At least not, like...y’know, I’m just gonna shut up.”

You both settled on seeing a new action flick, something that focused on some oversaturated superhero property that wasn’t going to be overly boring (for him) or scary (for you), five days from now. The show time you both settled on was eleven at night, the last and latest showing available, with the comfort that at least the theater was likely to be empty so late at night. You’d have to cut your shift a little early but you could just work a little late each day leading up to that night. Plus, your next day off was Friday (which, as an aside, was completely wild, you never got that lucky) so staying out late on Thursday night would give you the added luxury of sleeping in on your day off guilt free. 

The human and demon still sit on opposite sides of a kitchen island made of particleboard and fake stone, but they can’t find it in them to let go of the other. Even once their plans are made they sit in silence-- No, it’s not awkward, not the way it had been in the past. It was tense and terrifying and exciting. Like a cliff diver stepping to the precipice. It was the electricity that buzzed through you before the elation of taking the leap.

How thrilling this falling thing felt.

“Can we go to bed?” The demon tears his eyes away from where your hands are intertwined. You can see him searching for something to snap back, a whip of a reply that would leave you laughing or flustered or maybe even both, but all he could muster was a nod.

There weren’t words that could compete with the warring emotions trying to tear themselves from his throat.

You went through your nightly rituals. He waited nervously, perched at the edge of your bed. It hadn't been quite this scary before, sleeping beside you. He hadn’t shared so much of himself with you before tonight. And the way you had so easily accepted everything...Beetlejuice was starting to trust his impulses less and less. 

You emerged from the bathroom, washed and ready for bed. Neither of you said a thing as you laid down for sleep and, now out of habit, the ghost wrapped an arm around your shoulders. You had been in this same position less than twenty four hours previous. A lot had happened in that time, and to be honest even that was being reductive. But as you closed your eyes and sought out sleep that same thought from this morning slammed into you like a speeding bullet-train.

You wanted Beetlejuice to kiss you.

You had been so terrified of this very feeling just this morning. And oh, now it was all you could possibly think about, how thrilling this falling thing felt.

* * *

Today is Monday. There are four days until Beetlejuice is going on a date with you.

Having done this whole “dozing and pretending to sleep like the breathers do” thing for a little more than a week with you, Beetlejuice had learned to enjoy the near unconsciousness his brand of sleeping brought. You had rolled over in your sleep and the demon had instinctively followed you, chased the heat of you and matched his body to yours. Your back is snug against his chest and the waking part of his brain was cautious; an experienced hand reigning tenuous control over a beast that could go wild at any second. 

Your midsection rises and falls rhythmically with the deep breathing that sleep brings. His arm wrapped around your middle rises and falls with each breath and lulls him further into comfort that is entirely guilty pleasure. The demon wakes from his sleep-like trance when you jolt or grumble. You stirring in his arms, writhing against the length of him spooned behind you, is utterly impossible to ignore.

It takes a nearly impossible level of control for the demon not to do every sordid thing to you that he’s been fantasizing about for the past several days. Sometime in the past weeks you went from a breather who had his affections, maybe even admiration that you seemed to be sticking out a very tough mental state on your own up until meeting him, but you really had all the inherent sexiness of a sack of potatoes. You wore frumpy clothes or your work uniform, no in-between, and even after you showered you wore sweats like they were armor. You never made yourself up or even attempted to be vaguely alluring. It just didn’t seem to be a priority. Honestly, Beetlejuice was fine with that, because you were just the means to an end. You weren’t the traditional temptation and in the long run that would make things easier for him.

But then you’d been so vulnerable, so careful in how you exposed those loneliest parts of your soul, even the demon could feel the gravity behind your confessions. You were a lot alike. Bad news for you, to be honest. And what had started as a need to shelter and protect you had become stronger and stronger until Beetlejuice realized he now wanted to please you if only for the privilege of hearing your laugh or seeing you smile.

You had such a cute fuckin’ smile, he’d do anything to see it.

But then, _oh-hoho_, you dirty minx, Beetlejuice had slept beside you that first time and...Oh, Satan, the way his hand fits perfectly against the curved valley just above your hip, the soft give beneath the weight of his palm…

Sack of potatoes status: Officially Revoked.

Underneath those homely layers of mottled grey chitan you hid a soft, supple body that from that moment on wouldn’t leave his mind at peace. 

Feigning sleep had become impossible in those moments that your body moved just so this way or that. He’d break from his trance with hands wandering and, as desperately as he wanted to give in and explore to his perverted little hearts content, the idea of violating your trust in that way left a sour taste in his mouth. Besides that, the idea of you asking to be touched was so, so much more appealing.

You wake in his arms and a thrill goes through him, electricity racing up his spine, as you arch your back and groan. He’s grateful you aren’t entirely aware yet, or else you’d see a vibrant halo of magenta tresses, sleep tossed and nearly glowing with their intensity. 

As was said earlier; An admirable amount of self-control.

It almost sounds like you're purring and now it’s Beetlejuice’s turn to groan, the sound deep and rough with sleep and yes, he does notice the way you get goosebumps. “You’re killin’ me, hotstuff, and I’m already dead.” He grumbles his plea while biting the inside of his cheek. You mutter something incomprehensible before you roll out of bed and pad quietly through the apartment. Beetlejuice doesn’t leave the warmth of your bed for a solid five minutes while he tries to gain a modicum of control over his libido.

Later, when he’s liberated a bowl of breakfast cereal from your dragon worthy horde, he tries not to watch as you fiddle with your smart-phone. Are you texting the mystery man who’s expecting you for drinks later? Something in Beetlejuice bristles, a dog with hackles raised and growling in warning, before he remembers you’d already decided to call it off. The enraged beast inside is appeased and the anger that momentarily bubbled up is replaced with something possessive. And not just in the “This breather is funny and I’d kill whoever tried to take them from me” sort of way he’d felt existing alongside the Deetz and Maitland families. No, this was much more “That's my babe” sort of possessiveness that the demon wasn’t used to.

When had he gone from caring about you and your business the average amount for a fun and fascinating breather, to thinking of you as his?

You settled down next to him on the sofa and you both gravitated instantly towards each other; your head on falling into the crook of his neck, his arm slung around your shoulder, a few muttered jabs at you such as “It’s a good thing I like punishment. What? I’m kinky that way, babes, you know this,” or completely mundane things like, “Is Jerry Springer still on TV? I’d kill to watch a cat-fight right now. Did you see the pudding-centric episode? Actual art in motion.”

It was the best distraction he had. Waiting to take you out on this date was already feeling like an eternity, but the demon hoped the wait would be worth-while. 

Maybe in the meantime he could work up the courage to take the leap he was so afraid of.

* * *

Today is Tuesday. There are three days until you go on a date with Beetlejuice.

The quiet day before had become a rowdy night, the liquor cabinet raided once more, which was now a fuzzy headed morning crumple up on the sofa. Beetlejuice's snores woke you, the sawing loud enough to jolt you from one of the deepest vodka induced sleeps on your personal record. Your head protested any movement and so did the demons sleeping form beneath you. One arm was like a cold band of iron around your torso and Beetlejuice held you in place.

The throbbing in your temples took this as a welcome invitation not to move. You obliged, your head falling softly back down against his chest, hips twisting until your bodies slotted more comfortably together in the lumpy nest of couch cushions. The ghost grumbled at the disturbance, the full-bodied thunk of the (hopefully) empty vodka bottle slipping from his free hand and falling to the carpet. 

"You keep tryin' to get me in trouble, dollface..." Beetlejuice grumbled beneath you, not sounding the least bit irritated. With your ear pressed to his chest, his voice sounded like thunder rolling in the distance. 

"You're the one that won't let go," you grouse back, your own voice rivaling the demons for roughness so early in the morning. He chuckles, low and vibrating like cello strings ever so slightly out of tune, and sound seeps into you like the warm glow of a bonfire.

You go about your day as usual; shower, dressed, food, a little bit of trash television before heading out for work. You’re struck with the worry that you’ll see Rigel tonight and need to explain away missing your date. He seemed like a really nice guy, though, so in all honesty you were probably stressing over nothing. But when you got to work...your coworker wasn’t there. He’d also called out sick. You frown before shooting a text checking in on him, as a good friend would, and wonder if maybe you’d both been made sick by something you had at the coffee house.

Your shift was tortuously slow. Work being slow meant your mind was left to wander. And where your mind kept wandering to was distracting and, thankfully, less distressing than it had been a few days prior. 

You could admit to yourself that yes, you were in fact attracted to your ghostly roommate. Sitting even that much seemed like the impossible before. But the longer you thought on it the easier it became to parse out your feelings. Like steam fading from the mirror in your cramped bathroom after a long hot shower, the picture came into focus. Some parts of the picture were easier to accept than others, things like how you thought Beetlejuice was funny and his silly pet names. Things like how you wanted him to growl those names in your ear before kissing you breathless. And there were other parts of the picture that you couldn't put a name to yet. Things like how he would get enraged on your behalf, or call you out when you tried to lie about something petty. 

All of these things made your ghostly roommate one thing you didn't really expect. It made him surprising. He surprised with his kindness, he'd surprised you with his honesty, and not he'd surprised you with his interest in you.

You were given the opportunity to get all of your baking done well ahead of your usual window of time. You even got to head out an hour ahead of schedule. You weren’t complaining. 

It gave you more time to plot your plan of attack for Thursday. While lost in all of your earlier thoughts of pictures and details and the feeling of falling you'd been struck with an idea. You had never gone after a dead man's heart before, but you knew the way to it started at his stomach.

He showed you he cared by being a constant presence at your side. And what you knew about Beetlejuice? You knew he liked getting fucked up, eating junk food, and...well, the last thing he professed to love was out of the question. But you could definitely show him you care with some grade-A Instagram worthy junk pastries. You could already see his reaction in your minds eye, the over dramatic gasp and theater of the demon relishing each handcrafted bite.

You grinned at your bright blue cell phone screen as you found and saved the perfect recipe on Pintrest. 

It was time to surprise Beetlejuice for a change.

* * *

Today is Wednesday. Tomorrow night Beetlejuice is taking you out on a date.

He watched your face for any hint at what you were plotting. You were definitely up to something. Consider it the intuition of a professional con man who's pulled more than one grift in his time. Your hands adjusted the wife lapels of his eternally dusty overcoat, all fussy nervous energy as you smoothed down the front to the best of you ability. What were you hiding?

You'd come home last night glowing, a secretive little smile tugging at your lips, and had immediately told the demon to make plans for the following night. Beetlejuice's first instinct was fear. You quickly assuage his fears (Wowzers, is that gooey warm feeling of relief what it felt like to have someone actively avoid uncomfortable topics?) that no, it was just for tonight, and yes, you were both going to sit through a shitty superhero flick tomorrow night. 

"Come hell or high water!" You exclaimed, smile blinding and eyes glinting mischievously. 

"You won't get too lonely without me, will ya Hotstuff?" He watched amused as you pretended to think about, fingers steepling over your lips. You finally returned that bright smile to him and gave him a quiet giggle. His stomach swooped like he was riding a roller coaster at the sound. Oh fuck, he was in deep.

"I think I'll manage." 

And that how the demon ended up here, with you needlessly patting down his overcoat and fiddling with his tie before sending him out into the world to wreck a little havok. It had been quite awhile since he had attended anything similar to his bio-exorcist duties. He’d raise a little hell for some unsuspecting breathers and then meet you back at home for...whatever it was you were plotting.

A few dirty scenarios immediately popped into his mind's eye. Before he left the ghost with the most was grinning at you like the demon he was, images of you breathless and begging with movie tickets forgotten on your bedside table playing through the theater of his mind.

“Try to be home my ten, okay? I mean, if you--”

“Relax, doll, I’ll be on time for a change. Cross my not-heart and hope to die again.” You wished him a good night and he took the opportunity to remind you “Just three times if you need me back in a hurry, okay babes.”

Wondering the world at large was a little more complicated without you at his side. He’d have to leech off of the living wandering the sleeping little city you lived in to get from place to place, but he eventually landed at an old haunt; the local hospital. He wandered the halls, taking the opportunity to become spectral for the occasion, and looked for any opportunity to present itself. He missed almost every opportunity. His imagination still plaguing him with thoughts of you that were vivid with no basis to be so. 

Even when you weren’t around you were still distracting. He wasn’t really complaining, though.

But then there was a bigger distraction. A much, much bigger distraction, a powerful tugging at the very essence of his being that was disquieting. Beings without form were always drawn to powerful energy, be it emotions or just the pure strength of an entity, and this didn’t feel like a small tug at the end of a long rope. No, it felt much more like someone or something had grabbed him by the lapels and coat and bodily yanked him in a different direction.

The sickly sterile white lights lining the hospital corridor flicker. What is this horror movie bullshit? Beetlejuice cocks his head in curiosity, and calls out “Uhh, this one’s ocu-pado, dickwads, get your own haunt.”

“Oh Lawrence, Lawrence, Lawrence,” There is a breathy laugh and the demon freezes solid. At the end of the long hallway there’s a familiar figure. “I’m not here to haunt, you fucking  _ idiot _ .”

Dread, icy and spider outward like veins, drips through Beetlejuice. She walks with wide strides, stiletto heels clicking against the tile and hips swaying, and before a fellow demon stands before him. 

Marion Bellatrix Shaggoth; third brightest star in his shitty families constellation, power hunger cousin and, frankly, not his problem right now. She comes to a halt an arms reach away. The evil she’s radiating is powerful, much more so than the last time the demon had seen her. Her devil red rouged lips curl into a grin. “I’ve been sent to fetch you, Lawrence dear--”

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

Her smirk just widens. “You’re needed back home. Y’know, in Hell, where you belong.”

“Yeah,” Beetlejuice drags the vowels out, eyes narrowing dangerously to a glare. “I don’t think so, Trixy. You can fuck off with the horse you rode in on, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

She chuckles. Beetlejuice tries not to panic as his cousin curls a finger and his body goes stock still, rods of iron seemingly replacing every bone and leaving him immobile. Beetlejuice struggled against the power holding him at bay, trying in vain to escape with grunts of indignant rage. He helplessly floated forward, eyes widening as a spiraling portal appeared from the ether behind Bellatrix.

“I think you’ll find,  _ Lawrence _ , that you  _ are _ goin’ somewhere.”

* * *

Today is Thursday. Tonight a human and a demon will go on a date together.

You had worked at double pace to escape your work as quickly as possible. The second you were in the door of your apartment you set to work. Your kitchen became a small disaster zone of flour, powdered sugar, and sliced citrus halves already juiced. The presentation didn’t have to much, thank goodness, but you knew the flavors were there. You had half a dozen of your surprise laid out on chipped plates with an hour to spare before Beetlejuice was set to arrive.

Fruity cereal topped raised donuts with a blood orange glaze? Fucking check.

You raided your closet next and agonized over what was too much or what was too little. After laying out a few combinations on your unmade bed you settled on a pair of distressed jeans with the sort of manufactured rips that were disheveled-chic, and a navy and maroon patterned sweater that was just a little less tatty and baggy than your others. You had just enough time to attempt some black eyeliner, mascara, and neutral eye shadow (you know, for flair) before Beetlejuice was set to arrive home.

But then ten o’clock came and there was no sign of Beetlejuice. You leaned against your counter, fingers tapping nervously as you waited fifteen minutes and...still no Beetlejuice. You anxiously paced your apartment as your brain began over analyzing every little thing, another fifteen minutes passing, and still--

Did you do something wrong? Was he actually still mad at you for making plans with someone else? If that’s the case he was being a dick, your brain raged, you thought you’d both worked that shit out. Where in the world was he? 

You stared around your apartment, willing him to pop into existence with your mind. He didn’t. You planted both your feet on the ground, fingers balling into fists as you hurriedly chanted “Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice!”

The only response was silence. No flashing lights or puff of smoke. Your demon simply wasn’t there.

You’re truly panicking now and you race around your apartment trying desperately to think of anything, be it explanation or solution, that could help at this moment and then--

_ Bzzt! Bzzt! _

Your eyes snap to the source of the sound; your phone, vibrating across the kitchen island counter top. Your impatient hands snatch it up, clumsily unlocking it and hoping, you’re hoping so hard it’s him--

A text from a blocked number is all that greets you. Something about the faceless icon unsettles you, but you open the message regardless. Maybe it was a message from Beej. You desperately hoped it was. 

You were greeted with the words “From a friend” and a video file. You stare at the black rectangle on your screen, thumb hovering over the grey play button as your anxiety builds…

You hit play and hold your breath. A familiar voice crackles through your phones speaker, tinny but unmistakable.

“...It’s really just a green-card thing, Trixy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. 
> 
> 😇
> 
> If y'all haven't guessed by now, the next chapter is going to be quite big and quite angsty. I'll make sure to put a warning before the next chapter, but I really wanted to give y'all who need it as many warnings as possible because (and I cannot stress this enough) the next chapter is going to be emotionally rough. It's also going to be a pretty big chapter, so the date I'm aiming to post is next Friday, 11/29. For my USA buddies this'll be my black Friday gift to y'all (Especially y'all retail warriors out there, I am sending you as many good vibes as the universe will let me lmao) and give me time to do the turkey day things. I have no idea if I have any non-American readers, but if I do it will just be a nice Friday for y'all I hope lol.
> 
> As always, thank you all for your incredible comments, they are such a big motivator for me to do my very best! And thank you for all the kudo as well! Make sure you bookmark so you don't miss an update, and I'll see y'all Friday.


	9. The Fall, Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beetlejuice discovers a new threat, and you have a really bad night.
> 
> Content warning for angst and self-hatred.

This was not how Beetlejuice had seen his day going. 

The ghost had figured he'd pop a few light bulbs, maybe manifest some roaches on a dinner plate, and he'd even thought the kiddos in the sick ward would appreciate a little chair pyramid poltergeist activity. Maybe if he was feeling frisky he'd flip a bedpan on a shitty (ba-dum-tss!) nurse if he caught any particularly cruel ones. Where he found himself however was one of the back rooms at Dante's Inferno, strapped to a gold gilded chair with molding leather. Well, strapped wasn't really the right word. Whatever had happened to his cousin Bellatrix since the last unfortunate time they met had made her unusually powerful. Her will alone held him in place, no physical binds needed.

Shit, he was really losing his touch if little Bellatrix could bend him to her will. 

Speaking of Bellatrix, she sat in a notably not shitty chair in the opposite corner, cast in the shadows of the low lit room. She stared, silent for the time being, passing something he couldn't quite make out from hand to hand. Every time Beetlejuice tried too hard to focus on any one thing his vision would blur or his head would jerk unnaturally. And that was as frustrating as it sounds. The demon snarled, yellowed teeth bared like a mongrel warning away a threat. 

"Calm down, Beetle-boy, there's no fight here." Bellatrix snapped her fingers and the side door swings open. Two of the club's dancers file in and get handed two impressive wads of cash. "Keep him company for me, you two. After all, this is business and I'm not an ungracious host."

"Cut the shit," Beetlejuice growls lowly as each dancer takes a seat on each knee. "We have no business."

"Oh, but I think we do, dear." The brick in the demoness's hands suddenly illuminates...a smartphone. Since when did anyone in the Afterlife care about current technology that wasn't directly tied to warfare? And even then it was the sort of distant appreciation that no greater demon would be caught dead participating in. To use breather's tools was to admit that any of them had something greater than the denizens of Hell. But then she turned the screen. 

A sickly lump got stuck in Beetlejuice's throat as he stared at your picture illuminated on the bright blue-light screen. You were having a smoke outside of somewhere he didn't recognize. But that detail didn't matter. What mattered was why Bellatrix had a picture of you.

"So what does a demon need to be shacked up with a snack-cake like this, hm? I mean," her thumb flicked over the screen and there was another shot, this time of you sitting alone with a cup of coffee in the kind of coffee shop that he was sure was some hipsters wet dream. The dancers tittered at each of his sides, their hands wandering and while he normally wouldn't object to this, the situation was vastly different. This felt like a threat. "As a succubus I can appreciate it, but you're a Trickster, Lawrence. You're not using them to feed."

"How’d you get that--" 

"I mean, really," she barreled on, another swipe and then another picture. It was the two of you at twenty-four hour grocery store, Beetlejuice reaching up and past you to get something from the overstock shelf just to be annoying. You were both smiling like hooligans. The specter’s chest rose and fell, taking in deep unnecessary breaths, as rage and fear built in equal measure. "You're attached to it's hip, for Satan's sake. It's not much to look at and, from what I've gathered, this flesh-sack doesn't get out much. Not like you’re getting out to paint the town red with this one."

"It's not like that, damnit!" Beetlejuice shouted loud enough that every other being in the room went silent, the distant rhythmic thump of the club the only disturbance. Bellatrix smiled slowly and turned the image away.

"Then what is it like, Lawrence?" Bellatrix turns the screen from his view and leans forward in her seat, fingers steepled against her lips in mock-consideration. “I know you killed mommy-dearest but that doesn’t mean you can just go around breaking rules.”

“Pfft, rules? Why the hell should any of us care about ‘rules’?” He cuts back. “We’re demons, dammit. Rules are for breathers and saps.”

“That’s fair,” Bellatrix nods, but something about the shift in her voice makes BJ’s stomach drop. ”But these rules are also what keeps my position comfortable. You’d probably have a greater appreciation for them if you’d just get with the program and do as you’re supposed to for a change.”

Beetlejuice can feel his hair darkening with each imagined heart beat, his rage going dark and darker until his hair is as deep blood red as his cousin’s painted lips. Bellatrix’s fingers snapped and a lot of things happened at once; the room went dark, Beetlejuice felt his entire body slump down in his seat, and the girls on his lap gasped at the scenery change as muted red light spotlighted his position. This felt terrifyingly like the trials his mother would put him on in his many hundreds of years existence. Well, save for the two dancers at either of his sides, that was still a worrying distraction. 

“This little snack-cake is just full to bursting with all sorts of anxiety and self-loathing. They’re practically made for someone like me, Lawrence.” Fear dragged up his spine, the fine hairs at the back of his neck standing on end. That was more than a threat. Knowing his cousin that meant Bellatrix had already had an eye on you and the only reason she hadn’t moved in yet was because he was in the way. You were in very real danger and Beetlejuice had to swallow down the lump of terror that tried to claw its way out of his throat. Bellatrix would consume you, body and soul, to the point of oblivion. You wouldn’t even be relegated to the Afterlife if that happened. You would just cease to be.

Oh shit, he could lose you. Like, really, actually lose you. 

Fear wasn’t the word for the feeling that took hold of his insides. This feeling was sharp and agonizing and made his throat tight. 

“So I would like an answer as to why you’re leeching off a perfectly good meal for someone like me.”

Beetlejuice forced himself to breathe evenly, his chest stuttering up and down slowly, and tried to look unaffected. It wasn’t likely to be working but, none-the-less, he tried. “It’s, y’know...ha, this is so embarrassing…”

“I won’t judge, Beetle-boy,” Bellatrix encouraged soft, gaze like daggers. She hooked one knee over the other and leaned forward with the mock-interest of a fresh faced social worker. “This is a safe space.”

“Sure, sure,” Beetlejuice deadpanned. “Well, y’see...it’s really just a green card thing, Trixie.”

The demoness's smile widened dangerously. "Oh, you're running that grift again?"

"You know the drill, dollface. Get hitched, get to enjoy a little vacation in the land of living, Sandworm free." The dancers were loosening his tie and fiddling with the buttons of his shirt, and all the while the Succubi's gaze never left his. His gut rolled. Lying came easy to a demon. So did torture and extorsion and every other fucked up thing he'd done in his past, but this felt...wrong. He'd begun this journey with this mindset; he’d treat you sweetly and maybe flatter you just a bit more than the average breather, and presto-chango he’d be back to the land of living. He’d use you and move on, a clean break. But considering all you'd been through things had changed. A part of him had changed. At least a part of himself Beetlejuice believed dead and gone had been resurrected with a vengeance. This felt awful. But it's not like he could blurt out 'I think they're the one and it started out as my usual play for life, but now I’m gonna stick with them through thick or thin'. That would effectively paint you into a breathing bullseye. No, he'd have to lie about you, and he'd have to cope with the acid taste it left in his mouth. "It's like you said. Easy target, and all that shit. It’s so pitiful it’s almost hard to watch."

“You think this one won’t kill you?” Bellatrix stands, hips swinging with each step until the distance has been closed. She stole his tie from the slender dancer sitting in his lap, tugging it up and up until the pressure against his throat became uncomfortable. "That kid you tricked into marrying you last time killed you in, what was it? Five minutes? Ten, tops?"   
  
“Ha,” Beetlejuice practical growls, the sound somewhere between aggression and humor. Bile rises in the back of his throat. Sharp teeth dig into his tongue, but the pain doesn't offer the distraction he needs to maintain a stranglehold on his growing rage. “Like I’d stay even that long. The second it’s done I’m a free man.”

“Oh, so this one isn’t quite so wrapped around your finger yet? Can’t trick this one into bed, big guy?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Beetlejuice growled, eyes narrowing to a dangerous glare. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about.” 

Bellatrix laughed in his face, the cruel sound deceptively silky. “So you  _ have _ gotten them in the sack? Good for you, it must feel nice not to pay for sex for once.” The demoness barked out another harsh laugh, the dancers filling his lap tittering right along like a noisy pair of farmyard hens. Beetlejuice could feel his temper boiling. Rage simmered just beneath the surface and was threatening to spill over in hissing and spitting fits that couldn’t be controlled once let loose. As was his usual luck, Bellatrix saw right through his bluster. He was still pinned, after all. “What are you so shy about, Beetle-boy? Are they a boring lay?”

“Back off--”

“Oh, I’ll bet they’re a screamer. The dumpy ones always are the freakiest in the sack.” The dancers giggled in his ears, the sound insufferable like tea kettles struggling to whistle. 

“Shut your--”

“Or is it that even you, as nasty as you are and after everything you’ve become,” Bellatrix leaned in closer, a hair's breadth away, her eyes blazing like citrine gemstones held in a raging fire. “You’re repulsed by a breather pathetic enough to invite the lowly likes of you into their bed? I mean, you aren’t even the kind of demon made to ruin a human with sex, but somehow you convinced this pathetic little breather you actually wanted them--”

Bellatrix’s words died in her throat. Her throat was currently in Beetlejuice’s grasp, fingers pressing gradually harder and harder against the succubi’s windpipe. The ghost with the most shrugged the two dancers off his sides, both of them yelping like startled terriers, but his eyes never left Bellatrix. Satan, how he hoped she could feel even an ounce of the rage that was roaring through every inch of him right now.

“Now let's get one thing straight, Trixie, and you better listen good cause I’m only gonna tell you this once.” Bellatrix sputtered indignantly in his grasp, manicured nails scraping against his dirty striped suit. “That sad, lonely little breather is my ticket out of this shit-hole. Talk all the smack you wanna about me, but you stay the fuck away from them.”

Beetlejuice released the demoness’s throat. The dancers dash out of the room and Bellatrix snarls and spits like a hellcat, hackles raised. Whatever well of power she had drawn on to keep Beetlejuice at Bay has dried up, but angry sparks flew about the room. Beetlejuice cracked a wicked grin, eyes flaring as his power flowed freely. The demon snapped his neck to one side, then the other, shoulders rolling as he luxuriated in the raw energy pulsing through him.

"You wanna tango? Let's go, Tootse!" 

* * *

“...Are they a bad lay?”

Your hands are trembling so violently your phone slips from your hands. The brick bounces across your floor. The video must have stopped because all you can hear is the angry thump of your heart in your chest. Your face is burning-- with embarrassment? Or was it shame?-- and your eyes stung. Tears raced down your cheeks, unchecked, dripping from your chin and leaving dark patches on the sweater you agonized over wearing. You make-up must be an absolute disaster if the stinging in your eyes was anything to go by. And you’d taken so much time getting ready for your date--

Self-loathing rose up like a tidal wave and you went spiraling with the undertow. You were revolting, even to a demon from hell. You were a meal to the voluptuous woman who kept tugging on Beetlejuice’s tie. That demoness had said a lot of things about you in that video. She had called you pathetic. She had called you pitiful. She disparaged you in ways that you hadn’t heard since you were in the public school system, for fucks sake. But honestly, that wasn’t had tears streaming down your face. 

Yeah, to this other ghost or demon or whatever she was you were pathetic. But to your roommate? 

You were his ticket out of Hell. 

You were just a means to an end.

You were disposable.

You were  _ easy _ .

You fought against the waters but the hatred just pulled you deeper into despair. Because, after all was said and done, you were the idiot who had been stupid enough to trust a demon from hell. In your desperation to be just a little less alone you had invited a dead guy into your home. You had invited him into your  _ bed _ . And you would have invited him to any number of liberties with your person if you had gotten your courage up. The torrent of self hatred didn’t stop there. It just drew you deeper and deeper, leaving you with a sickening spinning sensation. Tear blurred vision swam as you scrambled for your coat and out your front door and into the night. You had to get out of that place, the stagnant air thick with heavy memories, and you couldn’t stand it a moment longer. 

Snow was falling softly. Thick fat flakes were already carpeting the sidewalks and boulevards. There was such profound silence that your hateful mind screamed all the louder. You had thought he was your friend. Fuck, you’d thought he had cared. 

_ You had thought maybe he lo-- _

No. He didn’t. He never had. And you cried all the harder because you  _ were _ easy. You were so lonely the only real relationship you had built was with a ghost, and you were struck with the desire to see him, to shout and scream in his stupid face. You wanted him to know the hurt he had caused. How could anyone do this? 

_ How could you be so fucking stupid? _

You wandered aimlessly, shaking hands clumsily lighting a cigarette. The silvery smoke was pulled into your lungs, the burn in your throat and chest an old comfort that harmed in equal measure, before you released it back into the snowy night. Memories pop up, unwelcome guests, with every shaky inhale and exhale.

_ Beetlejuice holding you close as you slept. _

_ Cold fingers tilting your chin so he could meet you eye to eye. _

_ The anger he wore when you came home crying. _

A scream gurgled in the back of your throat, held at bay behind clenched teeth. You were spiraling into a panic attack. You’d suffered through enough to know what was coming. You couldn’t be bothered to care that this was definitely not the place to have a full on break down. Simply put, you didn’t care about anything at this moment. 

_ Embellished. That’s all your life had ever been or ever would be. A reality TV show absolutely no one would suffer through watching. _

A sob tore through you, half smoked cigarette falling from your lips and extinguished the second it met the snow. Your hands gripped helplessly at your middle. You couldn’t get enough air. The harder you tried to breathe the shorter the gasps became. 

_ You had the audacity to think someone would ever actually fall in love with you? _

The streets are deserted this late at night, all of the businesses having closed up with store fronts left dark, and you don’t resist gravity as you lean against brick wall and slide to the ground. You grip yourself tighter and pray to anyone listening that this pain will leave you. One arm bands over your stomach. The other crosses your chest, fingers digging desperately into your shirt as though that will stop the erratic beating of your heart. 

The sounds of your crying are absorbed by the falling snow, snow that was collecting on your coat and pants and in your hair. You scrubbed your coat sleeve over your face, streaks of ruined black makeup leaving stains on the mottled grey wool. You have to get up, but your legs won’t work, everything feels like wet noodles and a fresh novacaine shot. Glassy eyes looked for any sign of help. There wasn’t a soul, living or dead, around to witness your suffering.

Perhaps that was for the best.

You tilted your head back and tried to force your closing throat to relax. You tried to focus on the air, tried to focus on bringing it into your lungs. You tried not to cry. You were unsuccessful. The darkness bearing down on you felt impossible to lift, impossible to fight. You were being beaten down by your own hatred and you were losing. 

_ You have to get up. _

What’s the point?

_ You’ll freeze if you stay out here. _

Who cares?

Your tears were burning hot against your icy cold skin. The movie you were meant to be seeing would be playing by now. You had ridiculous fantasies of slowly sitting closer than necessary, about leaning your head on his shoulder, about a first kiss with some explosion and epic music playing in the background entirely ignored by the pair of you. You had wondered if he’d take you to bed and try out all those lecherous jokes on you again, knowing that you wanted him. You had wondered what that would mean to him.

_ You are an idiot. _

The stars spun overhead and the world kept turning, oblivious to your existence. The cold began to numb the pain, and your anxiety melted into a bone deep apathy that held you in place.

* * *

You aren’t sure how much time passes. You stopped caring about the cold and slow march of time as you waited for your panic attack to fully pass. But eventually you tear your unfocused eyes from the clouded sky as you were washed in the yellow beams of a passing car. You heard it roll to a stop. Well, sort of. Everything sounded weirdly muffled.

“....an you hear me?”

That voice sounds familiar. You try your best to focus on the face now within inches of yours. The familiar voice is attached to a familiar handsome face.

“Rigel…?” Your voice is weak and grizzled from the abuse of sitting out in the cold. Again. Damn, this was not a fun hobby you’d developed in the last three months.

“Holy shit, dude, are you okay?” You try to wave him away, but the man just scoops you up under the arms and hauls you to your feet. You can vaguely make out the shapes of the words he’s saying but it’s hard to focus with everything so numb. “We should take you up to the emergency--”

“No,” you instantly protest, “Please, can you just...can you just take me home, please?”

He looks entirely unconvinced, eyes flitting over you from head to toe as though he’s taking stock of you. 

“Please, Rigel.” You must sound as pathetic as you look. He gives you a silent nod before helping you into the passenger side seat. After giving him the quickest directions to your apartment building the ride passes in silence. If he’s curious as to why he found you sitting on the sidewalk in the snow he doesn’t bring it up. 

You’re grateful for the silence.

“Gonna guess you’re callin’ in next shift, huh?” You barely nodded before he was already waving a hand dismissively. “I’ll make sure everything is okay at work. You just..I dunno, do whatever you gotta do to get right, alright honey?”

Honey? That was new. Rigel took the time to walk you to your door and pulled you in for a brief, very bro-like hug as you wished each other a good night. He waited until you were inside before he drove away. It was a thoughtful gesture that made your heart ache.

You’re mortified to discover you had left your place unlocked when you had gone running out earlier. But that didn’t matter right now. You weren’t staying willingly conscious for one more second. You shucked your boots and coat, the deadlock shoved into place, before you made for your bed. You began to burrow under your covers…

Your pillows smelled like him. Rotting leaves and stale cigarette smoke. Freshly turned soil.

You sprang back out of your bed like you had been burned. It took what little control you had left not to slip back into a hyperventilating heap on the floor. You managed your plop down on the sofa before the tears started again. 

Your life on this night felt so very much like that night so many months behind you. Hopeless and adrift alone in an endless ocean of solitude, you tried to ignore the fresh pain in your chest as you flicked on the TV and watched people embellish their less than perfect lives. You hated them for their mockery of happiness, of their survival made sensational with fast paced music and reenacted scenes, of their false heroism and triumph over the odds the world have leveled against them.

You hated them. You hated their fake smiles, and their fake bravery, and their picture perfect endings that only ever happened on TV. But you didn’t hate these porcelain people as vehemently as you hated yourself in this moment. 

You were just alone. And you were always going to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's part one of a two part angst fest. There's some stuff reader and BJ have to work through.
> 
> As a reminder, I don't do sad endings. Things will go up and down, but ultimately the end of this story will not be something that will leave you feeling sad. At the least, I certainly hope not! I hope you enjoyed this part! The next chapter will be up by Wednesday 12/4.
> 
> As always, comments are greatly appreciated, as are kudos! Thanks so much for reading, y'all!


	10. The Fall, Pt.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Say it three times.
> 
> Content warning for confrontation and angst.

It had been quite a while since Beetlejuice had to put on a demonstration of his demonic prowess. 

Truthfully? It felt pretty fucking fantastic. 

All of that fear and anger that had built up since Bellatrix dragged him back to the Afterlife was released in a furious explosion. And, let the record show, there was no "tango". Bellatrix was so winded having held the ghost with the most under her sway that she just couldn't keep up. Sparks flew in her face to singe her hair and skin, the pungent tang of sulfur accompanied by squeals of her rage. Storm clouds of green smoke swirled unnaturally throughout the cramped space. Beetlejuice’s cruel laughter bounced off the walls, and before Bellatrix had any idea where her target was, Beetlejuice was already at her flank and delivering another attack with all the wrapping of a Trickster’s prank. 

“What’s’a matter, Trixie?” The ghost mocked, maniacal laughter born of adrenaline forcing it’s way past clenched teeth. “What happened? Not such tough shit now, are ya?!”

Another shove, another surprise, another shout of pure rage from the demoness. Her perfectly coiffed hair was in tangles and her immaculately painted face was a disaster. She screeched in her rage, “I won’t forget this, Lawrence!” 

The trickster bristled. “Thought I told you to keep that name out of your fuckin’ mouth!” He pulled back before snapping another column of fire to singe her heels. 

The succubi yowled in her fury. “I swear on my star you will regret this! You’ll wish you’d never been born!”

“That’s my line!” 

The two demons traded blows, pyrotechnics lighting up the room in terrifying explosions, until finally Bellatrix fell back against the door frame. She dragged in deep, rattling breaths, as she braced herself to fight or flee, Beetlejuice couldn’t be sure. It didn’t matter. He was electric with his rage, every aspect glowing as crimson as hellfire itself. Oh yes, he was a centuries old demon of hell, and he was more than happy to step into the ring when a challenger came knocking on his door. This challenger hadn’t just come knocking, however. No, she had dragged him to Hell by his button-down jacket and tried to dominate him, tried to belittle that ancient power. 

Oh, if only his abusive shithead momma could see him now.

“You will stay away from that breather,” Beetlejuice growled, mouth twitching with each snarled word. “And you’ll stay away from me, Trixie, or I will fuckin’ feed you to the Sandworms.”

“You wouldn’t!” she gasped. The demon grinned, every inch of him as evil as the demon he truly was.

“Try me.”

When Bellatrix continued to just glare defiantly Beetlejuice just giggled with twisted glee. The sound alone was enough of a threat. The ghost didn’t have to advance one more step before the succubus turned on her heels and sprinted full tilt out of the ruined private room. Beetlejuice fell back into the smoldering remains of the leather settee with a groan. The initial adrenaline rush whooshed out of him with a heavy sigh, every muscle in his body buzzing with the fuzziness exhaustion brought with it. 

Okay, so maybe he was a little out of shape. Not that he had ever really trained his body to be in prize fighting shape. In his past Beetlejuice only ever got into the occasional scrap with lesser entities or he was trounced by his mother, there was no in-between in his previous fighting experience. Bellatrix was a close match to his own raw power. He’d been tested and now he was feeling the ramifications.

Heavy footfalls thundered in the corridor outside the destroyed room. Before Beetlejuice could whisk himself away to the land of the living the proprietor of Dante’s Inferno had him firmly by the lapels of his striped suit-coat. 

“Listen,  _ listen _ , Dante, my man, I can explain--”

“Not this time, Beetle-brains,” the grizzled old owner growled as he hauled the specter to his feet. “Someone’s gotta pay for this. Look what you did to my fuckin’ club!”

And that’s how Beetlejuice found himself before the Netherworld court. Again. They sentenced him to the usual which was weirdly a blessing. Haunting duty top-side. It served his purposes fine, that’s where he wanted to be anyway. That’s where you were, after all. He still put on a show, all mournful wailing and half-baked deals. "Your dishonor, I swear the room was charred to a crisp when I got there!" Or "You remember the last time you put me on guide duty? You really want me haunting again?" 

All of his mock-pleas fell on deaf ears. Which was perfect for his purposes. The two of you had plans, and…

_Oh shit_.

He was late.

* * *

Exhaustion pulled at the edges of your consciousness. The snow that had slipped inside your coat and blanketed your pants was long melted. You were shivering with cold that refused to leave you and it had taken more energy than you’d like to admit just to change into your dry pajamas. Your bed was deceptively inviting. It stood out like a spectator at the back of as crowd. But you’d already made that attempt, to let your body give in to the restorative blankness if sleep, and...yeah, the sofa was just a safer bet for uninterrupted sleep. 

You were so damn exhausted. 

Somewhere between staring dead-eyed at the television and trying not to slip back into a panic attack you slipped into a dreamless sleep. Peace was not meant for you tonight, it would seem, as at some point your unconsciousness is interrupted by a door opening. Fear immediately grabs you, a grip like a steel vice around your ribcage and stealing the air from your lungs, as you notice the broom closet door swing open. Something cold settles in your gut as indecision tears at you. In all of your misery you hadn’t even considered that you’d have to confront this in the same twenty-four hours. Anxiety and bitterness took hold of your heart in a vicious tug of war even as relief tried to worm it’s way into the battle. Relief that he had come back, that you weren’t alone.

But you were. Those warring emotions gladly reminded you, your relief spiked violently like a volleyball back down to the earth. You’d seen proof with your own two eyes, had heard the words come from his own mouth. The emotional whiplash left you feeling numb. You grabbed up your cell phone just for something to occupy your hands. The screen flashed to life; five forty-five in the morning, and a single new notification. 

The ghost with the most stumbles out, eyes wide and look tousled. His shirt is still unbuttoned and tie loosened from ...whatever had been happening in that video you were sent. Jealousy skidded up your sides like a wandering pair of lovers' hands. You stare blankly at him, something hot and boiling rising up like bile in the back of your throat, and pinch the tip of your tongue between your canines. 

“Ah, babes!” You recoil at the nickname. There was a sting, acidic and life-sapping, knowing that something that had once thrilled and comforted you was really just the bait on the fisherman's barbed hook. “I’m not late, am I? I hurried back fast as I could, I swear, but the traffic in the Netherworld these days--”

“It’s almost six in the morning,” you reply hollowly and boy howdy, the cold did a number on you once again. Instead of having a voice rough enough to rival the specter’s, however, your voice sounds thinner; tattered at the edges and flat, a little lifeless. You try to meet his eyes but you can’t, not without the ache that had lodged in your chest last night returning with a fierce burn. You scrub one of your hands over your jaw, agitated. “What are you doing here, Beetlejuice?”

He pauses when you use his full name. You can see the facade cracking, the slightly nervous cock-sure grin replaced slowly with a thin grim line. He recovers quickly and seems to pull his costume back on in short order. The trickster cracks another grin and holds his hands out in supplication. It makes your stomach roll. “C’mon now, hotstuff, be careful with the B-word. I just got hel--”

You cut him off. “How long did you think it was gonna take?” 

The demon falters, brows furrowed in open-book confusion. “What, comin’ home?”

“No,” you reply as you swallow down your fear and anger takes hold. “How long did you think it would take to convince me to marry you?”

The energy in the room instantly changes. The demon’s hair goes white at the roots, his eyes staring at you now wide as saucers. His mouth hung open, jaw working useless as he searched for something, anything to say in response. When he had none you pushed forward. 

“How long were you going to lead me on?” You push, voice dangerously low and dropping. You could feel your fingers trembling, your grip on the phone in your hands tightening by fractions. “How far were you gonna try to take this-- this-- whatever the fuck this was?”

“Back up,” he stuttered and stumbled, “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“A green card thing.” You growl back. 

The white at his roots overtakes every strand. “Who told you that?” 

You’re furiously unlocking your phone as you lept to your feet, quickly closing the distance between the two of you in the small one room apartment, your fingers skidding over the glass as you pull up the unknown numbers text and hit play. Beetlejuice’s voice crackles through the small speaker and echoes the words you just said as you viciously shove your phone in his face. “You did. You said it.” You spit back and feel a twisted satisfaction at the shock on his face. 

“I’m just a tool, right? You want your fucking freedom, right?”

“How did you get this?” The demon’s pitch is rising. You can feel his panic and the satisfaction of victory is stolen out from under you. Anger from the ghost you could handle. You could give it just as well as take it. Fear was different though. Fear you couldn’t handle, not from him.

“It was sent to me,” you reply and dammit, the way his gaze keeps shifting erratically between your cell phone screen and you makes your something burn in your chest. “And I just want to know why.”

“I don’t know why,” he pleaded and you can see his anger building, the white giving way to crimson red and wide streaks of deep azure blue. “I didn’t know I--”

“No, no,” you cut him off with a near shout. “Not why I got the stupid video, Beej, Oh my God! Why the fuck did you pretend to like me? Why did you pretend to give a fuck, goddammit, I fucking--”

“Slow down, doll--”

“If you needed that to get freedom I would have just helped you be free, but no! You really made me think--”

“Would you stop, for just a second, I can--”

“I can’t believe you made me think for a second you cared about me!”

“I wasn’t doing anything you weren’t, Tootse!” He shouts back enraged. His rebuke steals your breath from your lungs. Your teeth sink into the inside of your cheek hard enough to draw blood. The metallic coppery tang washes over your palate and you can feel tears burning your eyes. The demon barrels on, expression dark. “You breathers always see what you wanna see! Whatever you thought was whatever you felt. That’s on you. That,” he pointed shoves your hand and phone back at you and follows when you stumble a step backward. “Was a demon powerful enough to obliterate me and I said what I needed to so I could get the fuck out of there in one piece. It doesn’t explain why--”

“Get out of my house.”

All of the bluster goes out of Beetlejuice, every muscle going stock still. “What?”

“I said,” you thunder back, your voice cracking and throat working to hold the sobs at bay. “Get out of my house, Beetlejuice.” 

He doesn’t move, save for his clenched fists shaking at his sides and staccato breaths that make his chest jump unevenly and all the fire gone from panic stricken eyes. You’re crying freely now and he won’t move, he seems rooted in place, and you screw your eyes shut and shout as loud as you can, “Get out of my fucking house, Beetlejuice!”

There’s nothing but silence wrapped all around you. You thought for sure he’d start shouting right back at you any moment and you were spoiling for a fight. Your pride was already obliterated, having fallen for his scam, and now you’d broken down and cried like some newly dumped love-sick teenager. You finally opened your eyes…

There was only empty space where Beetlejuice had been standing. 

You cast your eyes all around the apartment, desperately looking for any sign of him, terrified in equal measures that he was either hiding from you or that he really had gone. It’d be just like him, you thought ruefully to yourself, he’d try to jump-scare you just after getting in a blow-out fight to try and set things right without an apology. You tried to speak but you’d shouted what little was left of your voice into oblivion. You throat burned and your abused vocal chords protested their misuse. 

The longer you stood alone in the center of your apartment the clearer it became. No jump-scare. No prank. Beetlejuice had left your home just like you commanded. You should feel grateful, but you don’t. You’re devastated. Every awful thing you thought about yourself or that was said in that stupid video was true. You race into your bathroom and slam the door with more force than necessary. The light is off and you leave it that way. The tiled space is small and dark and able to keep your secrets. The soap spattered mirror won’t tell if you weep. The plastic shower curtain won’t tell a soul how you shake from head to toe, sobbing coughs wracking your frame. The bar of soap won’t tell if you slip back into a panic attack and struggle to catch your breath or calm your racing heart.

You cry until you’re numb. You cry until you can’t feel your backside against the tile floor. You cry until you can’t remember why you’re crying in the first place, but then you let your hateful mind interrupt your mourning and remember just how alone you are. How you sent the only person who ever pretended to like you away. 

Time is just a passage of moments and you are more than happy to ignore it right now. You don’t try to keep track of numbers; minutes passed, tears fallen, hopes destroyed. You sit alone in the darkness and try as hard as you can to crucify that weak, wallowing part of yourself that so desperately wants to be loved. The lover inside of you fights and tries to bear the brunt the stones you’re casting, blips of warm thoughts of chilled fingers and infectious smiles, and it leaves you frantic to drown them out. 

Legs wobbly with pain that feels like static unfold and bring you to standing. You flick the light on and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your eyes are glassy and bloodshot. There are blotchy rash-like tear stains all down your face and your running nose is ruddy. You look like someone whose heart has been broken.

You turn away from your reflection. The person in that mirror disgusts you. 

You take a shower to wash away the salt sticking to your skin. The small bathroom quickly fills with heavy clouds of steam. It feels good to breathe them deep. You bring the warmth into your inflamed and stinging lungs and exhale all of your fool-hearted wishes. Because those wishes of a youthful heart are what truly hurt. You had wanted so, so much. You had wanted to be cherished. You had wanted to steal his breath away. You had wanted him to want you as desperately as you had come to want him. 

You had wanted too much.

You went to work the following day and Rigel didn’t hide his surprise when you turned up. You thanked him again, although every word was whispered with the weakness in your voice.

“It’s no trouble,” he’d assured you. Before you turned back to your work his hand clapped your shoulder, the familiar companionable gesture welcome. It calmed you as well, a detail that went largely unnoticed. “Once you’re feeling better how about you and I cash in that rain-check and have that drink, yeah?”

You nodded slowly and gave your coworker a small smile. You tried not to let it sting that there wouldn’t be a jealous idiot to interrupt you this time around. “I’d like that.”

Beetlejuice isn’t at the apartment when you return home that night. 

* * *

Routine falls back into place. Your waking moments are monotonous. You try to eat but it just seems like a waste of time and something old and hateful in your mind rears its head every time you try to pour a bowl of cereal. You watch TV and avoid all of the shitty day-time shows that your former roommate so enjoyed. You stop sleeping in your bed altogether, old sheets and blankets having been washed and replaced with neatly made ones. 

You go to work and make small talk with your coworkers and try your best to be supportive and useful. You take your breaks with Rigel out in the cold, the pair of you becoming closer with each shared smoke break. You still haven’t formally scheduled the date but he seems to understand that you need space to work out whatever state he’d found you in, and for that you’re grateful. Your boss still belittles you and some nights it’s draining just to not cry. Other nights you disassociate for you have no idea how long. You take your time with your nighttime baking routine. 

And every night you walk home you try to avoid walking on the sidewalk beside the graveyard. The very few times you’ve glanced up from the slick, slushy mess of concrete beneath your feet the cemetery was as still and empty as the grave. You’d make it back to your small one room apartment and it would be dark and desolate.

You take your usual sunken spot on the sofa, a diet soda in hand, and watch over embellished TV shows about surviving against all odds until you’re overtaken by unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all enjoyed (?) this chapter. 
> 
> And I have good news! I've been working on this thing non-stop so the next chapter will be posted this Friday, 12/6. There's a little more saddness ahead but that's only to resolve the current conflict. That doesn't mean smooth sailing necessarily, but I'm not out here just trying to make y'all sad (I hope lol), so I promise there's some lightness and fun ahead.
> 
> Thank you again everyone for all of your wonderful comments!! I super appreciate it!!! It's really motivated me to work hard and get these chapters out and I cannot stress enough how much I appreciate y'all's support. 
> 
> See you Friday 😎✌


	11. Stick the Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beetlejuice works through being banished and stumbles across some old friends.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy the chapter! Please be sure to check the notes at the end!

You banished him.

You really banished him.

For the first few moments Beetlejuice is struck dumb with the realization that he had been cast away. There was a sizzling sound and a burning at the base of his skull that felt like a paralytic. The last thing he saw was your enraged face with tears cutting wide tracks down your cheeks. And then...pop! His form was siphoned momentarily into the Netherworld, but considering his recent transgressions he was quickly thrown back topside. Ass over teakettle, the ghost came crashing back into the mortal world and landed in a heap. 

Beetlejuice stared blankly at the pre-dawn sky above as his brain caught up to what just happened. How you shouted, and how you cried, and how you ultimately cast him aside. The demon scrambled to his feet, fingers clawing wildly at the frozen ground, and screamed into the frozen air. The sound died in the crystalline atmosphere. An incorporeal ghosts voice didn't echo. And then he raged all the harder, booted foot colliding with a nearby headstone, over and over and over again. His rage was incandescent. Every fiber of his being sang with the knowledge that he was invisible, and alone, and that freedom had once again slipped out of his grasp.

And  _ you _ . You traitorous little--

He roars again and punts the frost covered grave-marker hard enough to leave it tilted in the corporeal world. “Fuck!” He screams, pacing wildly and clawing at his hair like a feral beast. “Fuck! Fuck!  _ Fuck _ !”

It had taken less than twenty four hours for his entire world to be turned on its head. He hadn’t made it to that far off finish line of living again. Hell, he may have alienated himself from the Maitland and Deetz joint household with his evil antics, but at least he had been alive with a real heart beating in his chest. Okay, it was only for five minutes, and it was at the expense of a kid in mourning, but at least he’d made it! And this time he wasn’t even going to torture or extort you to get what he wanted! He had played nice. He’d made you smile, and laugh, and watched as pretty blushes spread like wildfire across your face--

Oh shit, you had _banished_ him. 

The demon’s vision swam and he angrily swiped the offending tears away, teeth bared in a snarl. You didn’t want him around? Fine. He didn’t need you. He didn’t need  _ anyone _ . And he shouted it into the ether for absolutely no one to hear.

Beetlejuice had gone on benders in the past. None were as absolutely out of control as this one. Once he started haunt-hopping he got high and stayed that way for days. Conjured liquor and smokes were cycled through with almost a machine like efficiency, all topped off with rails of cocaine that gave him enough energy to rival certain pink battery-branded bunny rabbits. All in his wake he left havoc. Hospitals suddenly found themselves with staff shortages at the sudden number of nurses and janitorial staff that had “unexplained supernatural experiences” (read, Beetlejuice tearing through like a one man tornado) and jumped ship with barely any advance notice. Bars were left suddenly bereft of customers after the ghost had made himself a little too at home and, through an impressive act of thaumaturgy, shattered every glass and beer bottle in patrons hands. He jumped from place to place and continued his binge, numb to anything that wasn’t the hilarity of his cruelty or the ache to make one more breather scream themselves hoarse.

With each hop the demon got farther away from you. Farther away from your shitty little apartment and your stupid tear-stained face and your boring, miserable life. Beetlejuice would viciously mock you in his mind, even shouting his hatred for you when his cocktail of drugs and alcohol really kicked in, and he relished in the way he felt absolutely nothing. He was blissfully numb. The world that he created with a paintbrush dipped in mortal panic was one of chaos, but his own emotions were blessedly forgotten. 

However, anger only carried him for so long. Soon enough even that powerful emotion gave out under the weight of the pain he was trying to mask. He’d make his jumps to empty graveyards and sit in the silence. Sometimes he’d shout and rage against these unfinished feelings that bubbled like a geyser just beneath the surface; an eruption inevitable and unpredictable as a volcano. Sometimes no amount of chemical changes would stop the tears. And then there were the terrifying moments of clarity, the moments he recognized the hurt he had caused and how much he misses you. 

The moments he realizes he doesn’t want to be just another miserable breather if it’s not with you at his side.

He runs faster than ever at those times. Back into the bottom of a bottle and to another place farther removed from you.

He doesn’t know when or why or even really how it happens, but Beetlejuice lands at his grave. The shallow grave outside the Deetz and Maitland home. The numbness of his binge is starting to wear off and he’s too emotionally drained to face anything this damning right now. But fate has other plans, as fate is wont to do, and the demon’s departure is interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Mister Beetlejuice?” 

The ghost whips around so violently the world tilts on its axis. Sickly green eyes, wide and wild, snap to the familiar voice. The dearly departed Maitland's stare back at him with open shock. If there's worry on those faces Beetlejuice tries to ignore it. Of course they'd be worried if he showed up, come to ruin their peaceful existence. The world doesn't stop moving when he does and the dizziness catches up with him. It ends with the demon in a messy heap in the packed snow.

Beetlejuice tries to scramble to his feet before they surely start shouting him away as well, fear written plainly on his pale face, but the shouting never comes. A cautious hand falls gently at his back and there's Adam Maitland, of all fucking people, staring down at him with a look of concern he hasn't seen before. Well... that’s not entirely true. He’s definitely seen it before, but it’s never once been directed at him.

"What's happened to you?" Adam asks. Barbara is there too, leaning over her husband's shoulder, all blonde and beautiful and also wearing that upsetting expression of worry. Beetlejuice can't process this, it's all too much, after days of anger, and soul-deep sadness, and enough alcohol and hard-drugs to kill the inhabitants of a city block it's too hard to pretend to be okay anymore. The facade cracks and begins to crumble under the weight of his regrets.

"I really fucked up," Beetlejuice confesses, voice wobbling and thick with unspoken emotion. Adam claps his shoulder like an old friend would and it's too much to handle. The terror from hell, the ghost with the most, a literal demon breaks down and cries in front of two of the people he's hurt the most.

* * *

The Maitlands sit on the steps of their front porch with a demon. The demon in question is one mister Lawrence “Beetlejuice” Shaggoth, whom they haven’t seen in over half a year now. It wasn’t surprising that when he landed back on their doorstep that the ghost was blitzed out of his mind. What was surprising was the fear and anguish they saw written plainly across his face. If not his expression, the deep ranging shades of purple and blue that streaked his wiry hair was a dead give away. It had taken several long patient minutes of the Maitlands coaxing Beej to move from where he’d fallen in the snow to join them at the steps. They weren’t ready to invite him into the house, not when the living occupants were out and had no say. The usually combative demon didn’t push the issue, though. He’d meekly obliged and sat a good arms length away from either of them initially. Adam and Barbara shared worried glances back and forth, the sort of silent communication that comes with loving someone so deeply sometimes you don’t need words to know what the other is thinking. 

“I didn’t mean to come here.” Beetlejuice eventually blurts out, fingers knotted together and knees bouncing with nervous energy. 

“We’re just as shocked as you are,” Barbara replies carefully, her husband nodding solemnly at her side. The blonde woman eyed him warily. She knows the specter well enough to know that anything could be a trick or worse. “Although, you couldn’t have picked a better time.” 

“Yeah, the Deetz family decided to take a cruise to someplace sunny for the holidays.” Adam chimes in. The pair watched him carefully, looking for any signs that this potential ruse might snap, but he surprises them with a shaky sigh. He seems...relieved? Again the married pair exchange a curious glance. They're both unsettled that such a seemingly unstoppable Force has given up any fight he used to have. Unable to stand the loaded silence any longer Adam takes the reins of the conversation. “Beetlejuice, what’s going on? You, ehm...w-well, you don’t look like you’re okay.”

The demon struggles to meet Adams eyes. Something about how hesitant and defeated he is gives the suburbanite pause.

“I don’t think I am okay,” Beetlejuice mumbles the reply. “I think I really screwed the pooch this time.”

Adam cringes at the turn of phrase but Barbara urges Beetlejuice on. “Well then?” She prompts, and when the usually talkative and rambunctious ghost just stares at the tops of his scuffed shoes she pushes harder. “Let's hear it. It can’t be worse than what you put us through.”

The demon huffed a sigh, head tilting as though in consideration. “Fair point.”

And then he slowly unloads what’s happened these last few months. Beetlejuice tells the departed pair about you and how, when you’d first stumbled upon him in that graveyard, he had seen his ticket back to the land of the living. They figured as much and their expectations for this conversation instantly fell. Of course he was still trying to weasel his way out of death, and in the process he’d hurt another living soul to get there. His disappointment was probably tied up in losing his little game for a second time. It was oddly disheartening for the pair to see how much he hadn’t changed since last they met.

But then Beetlejuice told them about how your laugh was bright and joyful. With a soft smile that was brittle at the edges he told them how much fun you were, even if you only ever went on walks in the night or watched shitty TV. And Beetlejuice told them how you felt like warm sunshine when he touched you. Beetlejuice told them how nervous you made him. He told them how you brought down barriers that he’d never willingly dropped before. He told them about how you stopped being just another breather that could help him get what he ultimately wanted, and how somewhere along the line you’d become...more, somehow.

And then Beetlejuice told them how he’d been dragged to Hell, and how he’d missed your date, and how he’d said what he needed to say to get out of there alive. Barbara and Adam Maitland hung on every word. Barbara’s lips were pursed as if in deep thought and Adam kept a fist balled tightly against his mouth. 

“They found out what I said in the Netherworld,” the demons grouses, booted foot kicking awkwardly at a slick patch on the wooden steps. “When I got back we, uh...we fought. And then...blamo! They banished me.” 

“This was all yesterday?” Barbara asks and the demon scoffs.

“Hell no, it’s been-- shit, I don’t actually know how long ago it’s been now. More than a few days, that’s for sure.”

“How can you not know?”

“Oh well gee, Babs, I dunno,” the trickster spat back, bitter venom dripping from each syllable. “I’ve been high since it happened--”

“Well,” Adam let out the word with a heavy sigh. It was becoming a habit the longer the Maitland's mentored Lydia and Barbara absolutely adored Adam’s very dad-esque sounds. “I think I know what you’re problem is there, Beetlejuice.”

That got his attention. The demon’s head whipped around so fast the Maitland’s were worried it’d fall clean off his neck. “Yeah?” Adam and Barbara exchanged a look, something adoring and secret glinting in their eyes, as a slow smile tugged at the hobbyists lips. 

“Yeah, I do.”

Beetlejuice’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, gaze wide and imploring. Adam just continued to grin smugly back in return. 

“Well?” The demon prompted, “Do you feel like sharing with the class, Adam?”

Adam pulls his wife against his side affectionately. “Sounds a little like what I felt when I fell head over heels for this lovely lady.”

Beetlejuice stared back like a deer in headlights. 

“You’re so upset because you care what this person thinks. That’s what all this,” Bab’s motions vaguely at the demon’s face. Beetlejuice recoils instinctively. “Is about. You’re hurt because you really liked them.”

“I don’t  _ like _ anybody,” Beetlejuice grouses.

The blonde rolled her eyes heavenward; God or whoever, grant her patience. “Sure, sure, every ancient entity cares about what a single human thinks, or worries about if they get cold at night, or ties to take them to the movies.”

The demon’s mouth falls open, a retort at the tip of his tongue, but the barb dies before it ever leaves his mouth. Beetlejuice shuts his mouth with an audible clack of crooked teeth, eyes scanning the frosted ground as though it would magically provide answers. The Maitlands watch and hold their silence, an odd edge of excitement shimmering in the air like heat off hot asphalt in the summertime. Beetlejuice’s eyes are tracking back and forth, following lines of text in a book only he can visualize, before something seems to just...click. 

“Oh, God.” Beetlejuice whispers on an exhalation, eyes going wide with a mix of wonder and fear. When he turns that gaze to the Maitland’s they’re both grinning like a pair of cats who got the cream. “Holy crappin' Christ, you’re shitting me.”

“‘Fraid not.” Adam replies, the two syllable response dripping with mirth. There was something cathartic about seeing the demon get so flustered. Beetlejuice was practically vibrating where he sat. Fingers taped and knees bounced erratically as a kaleidoscope of emotions played through the demon's being; Navy and royal purple shift to nervous yellows and burnt umber, finally dusting the softest pink and the frazzled tips and spreading down to over take every other feeling. While Beetlejuice rode the white-water rapids of his own emotional state a thought struck Barbara, her amusement melting slowly into concern.

"Wait, how did your friend know what you said?"

The other two ghosts turned to frown at the blonde, one in confusion and the other in concern. Beetlejuice was so lost in his own mess of thoughts Adam voiced the question they shared. "What do you mean, sweetheart?"

"Well Beetlejuice said he was in the Netherworld when he said of those things that made his new friend so upset, right? How did they know what you said if they’re living?”

All at once something else seemed to click in the demon’s brain, pieces of a puzzle fitting together that he had neglected in his anger. The nervous excitement he’d been wearing from head to toe was wiped away in an instant with the sort of panic stricken expression that the Maitland’s had worn in the past. “There’s a video. They were sent a video.”

“They were wh--” But Barbara was cut off by the trickster suddenly jumping to his feet. The Maitland’s followed suit, once again confused and concerned at the sudden emotional shift. It had been so long ago that they’d ridden the emotional roller coaster that was spending any time with Beetlejuice that they were getting worn out just trying to keep up.

“I gotta go,” The married couple could feel the demon’s panic rising, his feet tapping like he was jogging in place on the steps. “If Bellatrix sent them that video then they’re in danger, they could already--”

“Slow down!” Adam stood at the demon’s side, his hands hovering awkwardly at Beetlejuice’s shoulders. “Don’t panic, alright? You’ve gotta keep a clear head.”

“But they sent me away! What if they don’t want me...shit, what am I gonna do if they don’t want me to come back?”

“You care for this person, right?” Barbara appeared at the trickster’s other side, her matronly voice soothing but firm. She waited patiently for Beetlejuice to agree, a nervous “Yeah” all he could muster on the heels of anxious laughter. “Then go there and tell them the truth, Beetlejuice.” Barbara leveled him with the sort of stare that she was using on Lydia more and more these days. God, when had she become such an A-typical ‘Mom’? “Besides, they’re in danger, right?”

The Maitland’s watch from their front porch as Beetlejuice vanishes into a puff of bright green smoke. 

“You think he’ll be okay?” Adam asks his wife. Barbara wraps an arm around her husbands waist and pulls him into a hug.

“Okay?” She echoes, still grinning as the smoke is whisked away by the winter wind. “I don’t think he’s ever been better.”

* * *

Time is a funny thing when it’s passage doesn’t matter. Beetlejuice had absolutely no clue when you had banished him. Hell, he’d either been black-out drunk or racing around high as a kite until he’d landed back at one of his most notorious haunts. But now he was clear-headed and trying to get back to you, and honestly? It was taking forever. 

As it turns out Beetlejuice had run pretty damn far.

The demon kept aparating from graveyard to graveyard, checking to see any sign of the familiar; the creaky old gates, a kicked over headstone, that single lamppost on the other side of the fence that seemed to flicker in morse code. With each jump the scenery wavered in and out of his memory, but there weren’t the oatmeal bland row of matching houses up the road from the gate, or there wasn’t that mausoleum he’d back you against the night you met. It was getting exhausting to keep making jump after jump with seemingly no progress. Shit, how far had he run? 

The sun was beginning to dip over the horizon when he landed somewhere familiar. The sky above was painted fiery gold and citrine as the deep darkness of night began to creep in. A whole day of demonic altercation was enough to wear a guy ragged and, truthfully, the demon sat back against the nearest tombstone and tried to simply catch his...well, not his breathe, certainly. But then Beetlejuice really took a look at his surroundings and his mental check-list was pinged off one by one; crooked headstone, Morse code streetlight, boring cookie-cutter houses. He turned to check what he was leaning against-- a very familiar granite mausoleum, icicles hanging from the boughs.

“Oh thank Christ.” The words were sighed heavily, back sliding and shoulders dropping against the sturdy stone structure. That was one problem solved. But now there was a new set of problems to tackle. How was he going to get to you? Or did he have to hope you came to him? And barring any of that, how was he going to convince you to summon him again? It was enough to make a guy’s head spin. He would’ve done the gag just for his own entertainment if he wasn’t so damn exhausted.

He waited. He waited in that graveyard all night for you, just like he did at the beginning. When you didn’t show up that first night he tried not to panic. It was probably your night off, or you’d gone and gotten yourself sick again. He didn’t dwell on anything else it could be that would keep you from your late night walk home. The second night passed and there was still no sign of you and the ghosts resolve began to bend under the pressure. It was late into the third night of standing vigil at the gates and Beeltejuice was electric with worry. If you didn’t show up tonight he’d just have to take his chances and try to get to your house before he became a snack to a hungry Sandworm. 

It was late into the night, later than he thought you’d ever stayed out before. Two nights off in a row could maybe be explained away, but three? No, something had to be wrong. Anger shivers up his spine as he realizes that in all of his tantrum Bellatrix could have come top-side and made you into a meal. 

Okay, enough was enough, he was going--

But then there was the distant crunch of shoes against packed snow and Beetlejuice froze. If there was a heart in his chest it would have been doing it’s best to pound it’s way out right about now. The demon turned wide eyes on the other side of the road and--

You passed under a street light in head to toe black. Your eyes never left the path in front of you. Oh my God, Beetlejuice could have cried at the sight of you.

“Ba--” His voice seemed to seize in his throat around a knot of emotion. It burned like a lump of coal. “Babes!”

You froze in place, your head whipping towards the graveyard gates. Shit, you looked pale. Maybe it was just the yellowed old streetlights that sparsely lined the road, but you looked like fresh death. But your eyes met his and for a few peaceful moments he drank in the sight of you. He was a mess, and you made him that way, and every ounce of his being wanted to fly across the distance that separates you, get on his knees, and beg for your forgiveness. 

As it stood his curse held him at the threshold. And you seemed to be anchored in place across the road. 

“I need to apologize,” he called out, but you shook your head.

“You need to do a hell’uva lot more than that.”

Beetlejuice nodded, a sigh whooshing out of him. It also felt good to hear your voice. Damn, you really had made him a mess. “You’re right, and I will, I promise--”

You were stomping across the road and, oh no, you looked like you were about to start swinging. “You leave, you say nothing, you don’t even try to contact me for nearly a month--”

“It’s been a what-now?”

“And then you show up and call me babes? You--!” You nearly barrel into him, your hands planting against his incorporeal chest to give him a shove. He stumbles back and you raise your fists to bring them back down against his shoulders, every ounce of you raw emotion that you hadn’t displayed to him before. “You jackass! You absolute ignorant, no-good, selfish--!”

The demon traps your hands against his chest and the sound you make, a whimper that you kill in the back of your throat because you’re so wonderfully stubborn, breaks something in him that Beetlejuice didn’t know existed. His hands dwarf yours against his chest and he’s never been more grateful that you don’t immediately pull away. “I’m sorry, babes,” he whispers to you, the words spoken softly as though this moment is something sacred. “I’m so, so sorry, I shouldn’t have stayed away from you for so long. I’m sorry I lied and I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry for a lot of things. It’s pretty weird, actually…”

You scoff. Your eyes roll heavenward and he tries not to stare. It’s a struggle he loses. 

“Is it really so weird?” You ask and your voice is suspiciously wobbly, as though you’re trying not to cry. The sound matches the glassiness in your eyes.

“Yeah,” Beetlejuice chuckles. He tried to swallow down his fear. “Yeah, it really is. Seems like you just have that effect on me, hotstuff.”

Your eyes roll again, a humorless laugh bursting out of you. “You and your stupid pet names.”

“Look, I’ve got something real important to tell ya, babes. Well,” it’s the specters turn to look to the heavens as though the held the answers he sought. The dark sky above offered none. “It’s more like a few important things, but this is, like, the most important thing. Does that make sense?”

“Not really, but go ahead.” You finally pulled your hands from his grip. It took an amount of self-control the demon didn’t know he was capable of to not immediately snatch your hands back.You pulled out your stand-by yellow pack of cigarettes and lighter. Was that a new one? It was lime green and it made Beetlejuice’s overactive imagination kick into overdrive. You lit up your smoke, a brightly burning cherry of ember, and Beetlejuice set a mental clock; ten minutes to plead his case and you would be gone.

"You said someone sent you that video, right?" You nodded and took a drag, silver threads of smoke curling around your finger tips. "Who sent it?"

"No name," you replied curtly. "Just said it was from a friend."

"The demon in that video? She didn't send it, and I sure as shit didn't send it." You rolled your eyes again and took another drag. The timer ticked faster with each puff. "The demon is a succubus. She'd drain you just like a vampire but, y'know, a lot less blood and teeth. Well, unless you're into that--"

"Get to the point."

"You're in danger. And Bellatrix wanted me out of the way and that's exactly what happened, alright? Look, look," he held his hands out defensively when you seemed ready to turn away, an edge of panic to his voice. "You're right, I lied, and those things I said were true in the beginning, but--"

"You came back just to tell me that?"

"No! I...shit. Fuckin'...look, okay, they were true in the beginning, and I can become a living, breathing idiot just like the rest of you if everything went according to plan. But it didn't."

"Oh, y'don't say?" You shoot back bitterly, eyes narrowing to a glare. "And what didn't go right, hm? Didn't I fall for you fast enough?"

"I fell." The demon replies. The confession drops between the two of you like a ton of solid stone, heavy and damning. "I went and fucking fell for you, and I cared about how you would feel when everything was done, alright? I couldn't...ah, shit, I couldn't…" 

Two souls stand quietly at the gates of a cemetery. You're starting with wide, terrified eyes at a six hundred year old demon, and he feels so, so small under your shocked gaze. Your cigarette burns uninterrupted between your fingers. 

Oh God, how terrifying this falling thing felt.

"I couldn't deal with the thought of playing you like that and then just ditching you. I couldn't go through with it anymore. And then...well, I dunno, you wanted me around even though I'm some nasty dead guy who's only good for a laugh and a scare, and I couldn't stop it."

"Beetlejuice." His name spoken so softly on your lips makes a shiver climb up his spine. He manages to meet your eyes and your already a step closer and staring up at him with an expression so intense he nearly trembles.

"Yeah, babes?" 

"Can we please go home?" 

The weight of everything comes crashing down at once and sends Beetlejuice on wobbly knees to the frozen ground. It startles a shout out of you and your right there with him in the snow, your cigarette tossed away and forgotten. The same weight that brought him to his knees is lifted when your hands frame his face. Oh my God, oh my God, the weight of your palms framing his face is warm like sunshine. 

"Beetlejuice?"

"It's fine, just," he laughs, the sound rough and wet and joyful. "Holy crap, it's really all gonna be fine! Just two more times, baby, please, and--"

It clicks in your mind what needs to be done and you don't waste another second.

"Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice!"

Sparks fly, lime green and exuberant, as the ghost with the most fully materializes before you. No lightning, no wind, no dramatics to get a rise out of you. Just Beetlejuice, on his knees before you in the freezing cold, his grin wide and radiant.

"I'm sorry we fou--" but you're cut off, your hasty apology aborted, as the demon crowds into you. He desperately presses his lips to yours, the seconds of contact seeming to last an eternity, before he pulls away with just as much vigor. He stares at you silently, waiting for any sort of reaction. The worrying thought flashes through his mind that you'll just banish him again. Oh shit, he'd really just planted one on ya, hadn't he? An apology is on the tip of his tongue but you press your hand to his mouth, the full weight of your palm halting his words.

"Let's go home, okay?" 

Your voice is so soft it makes him melt. Your hand trembles against his lips. Tears sting his eyes. "Really?" Relief washes over him. It's the cleaning fire of acceptance that sends his fears scattering into Oblivion. The demon practically giggles he's so giddy. "You're not just pullin' my leg, right?"

"Beej, I swear to God if you don't get up--"

He's rocketing to his feet and carrying you along with his, his arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders. He's hugging you close, clinging to you as though you might vanish at any second, with his face pressed snuggly into the crook of your neck. Apologies pour out, each more muffled and indecipherable than then last, and oh my God you're doing the same damn thing, apologizing and confessing how lonely you've been. You're holding onto his dust, dirty, flea-bitten overcoat as though it's the only thing tethering you to the Earth and Beetlejuice is giggling, the joy overflowing and impossible to hold at bay.

“We’ve still gotta talk,” you speak, your voice muffled where you’re pressed against his shoulder. God, he’s holding you! And you’re holding him, you want to be held! His mind can hardly keep up with each new exciting step the two of you make. “What happened was super, super not okay.”

“I know.”

“And we’ve gotta work some shit out, you can’t just--”

“Babes?”

You pull back enough and he’s already staring down at you. The way your face is flushed with excitement makes the demon pull in a calming breathe. Easy tiger, there’s still amends to make. You squeak the word “yeah?” in response, and it’s such a cute sound Beetlejuice doesn’t even try to stop the smile that cracks across his face.

“Lets go home.”

Two souls walk in the darkness, arm in arm. One is a demon from Hell, a ghostly trickster sentenced to an unknowable stretch of time to haunt the mortal realm. The other is you. You’re little plain, a little boring, yes, but now you’re also just a little less alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. I really hope that this chapter makes up for any of the angst in previous chapters.   
Moving forward that burn is gonna be a lot less slow, so I hope y'all are ready for a rating change. 
> 
> My birthday is next week and I'll be taking some personal time to hang with friends and family, so the next chapter will not be up until next Friday or Saturday (12/13 or 12/14) depending on what all I get up to this week. I'll also be working double time to get ahead on my chapters so that I hopefully have something to give you over the upcoming holidays without it interrupting my time with my family. I appreciate y'all's patience with this.
> 
> Thank you all so, so much for your wonderful comments and encouragement! It's my actual rocket-fuel!  
If you're not already bookmarked, make sure you do so you don't miss the next update! And my tumblr is @tarot-tea-trashmen if ya wanna come say hi before next Friday/Saturday!


	12. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Beetlejuice are reunited.
> 
> Rating change next chapter <3

A million thoughts race a lightspeed through your mind as you walk side-by-side back to your tiny one room apartment.  _ He came back, I'm still mad at him for lying, I'm so happy he finally came back, why did he stay away for so long, he kissed me, we have a lot to work out-- _

_ He kissed me. _

_ I wish he'd kiss me again. _

You can feel the heat bloom over your face, warming even at your ears and spreading down your neck. It's the heat of excitement, of yearning, of the obsessive memory of the weight of lips against your just a few minutes ago. 

Life was wild and, frankly, it needed to tone down the theatrics. It was a wonder your heart hadn't given out. That would be just your luck, the man you showed an interest in finally reciprocates and you drop dead from shock. But you've both got things to work through. Beetlejuice had lied to you, and then he had vanished for nearly a month. You may not be owed any answers for his disappearance but you certainly deserved to know about whatever scheme he had been trying to pull on you. The silence that sat between you like a third wheel was maddening, charged with a tension that you had suffered at his side in the past, and considering the circumstances you weren't in the mood to cope with it. You had to know. There was no point in wasting time.

"I need to know what that person meant." The quiet bubble is popped by your voice and immediately there's relief. If the demon's expression is anything to go by he's just as relieved as you are that one of you finally spoke. "Who was the person you married? And why did they kill you?"

Beetlejuice's relief was summarily wiped away, teeth worrying his bottom lip and hissing like a tea kettle ready to boil over. You could tell he was choosing his words carefully. It made your anxiety spike.

"You're really not gonna like it," he groans in a high pitch, face pinched. You shrug and shake your head.

"Like I've enjoyed any of that mess?"

"Fair, fair," he nods, eyes squeezed shut. You can see he's trying to bolster himself. His green topped head is bobbing as he gases himself up. "So I might've blackmailed a kid I know into marrying me, like, a while ago. And-- oh, don’t gimme that look...”

“By kid,” you said the word careful, each letter somehow holding it’s own intention, as you watched him careful with a sideways glare. “you mean just a young go-getter type, right?”

“Well…” Beetlejuice draws out the word, his eyes searching the sky above and very pointedly avoiding yours. “Lyds is a go-getter, kinda, I guess, but really it’s more like...she’s a, like...a, uh...a kid, like...sport, champ, first year of highschool kind of ki--”

“Are you shitting me!” You practically shout the words, mouth agog with your shock. He’s already cringing at your reaction and holding his arms outstretched. “You’re not serious Beej, what the fu--”

“It was a green card thing!” He wails in his defense. 

“You gotta know that’s the furthest thing from okay!” You shout right back.

“I know it is! I just wanted to be alive and I saw my shot so I took it! Lyd’s is like a little sister to me, I--”

You’re sent reeling, the absurdity of it all making you toe the thin line of hysterics. “That super doesn’t make it better, my guy!”

“You’re right! And that’s why I went away, cause I fucked up everything there and I wasn’t gonna make ‘em deal with me after…” The demon pauses. Crooked teeth grind as he tries not to choke on his words. “After all the horse shit I put them through. And I just wanted to be alive, and maybe...I dunno, maybe I could try to fix things with them, or maybe not, but I still wanted to try.”

You’ve both slowed to a stop if only to stare at each other. Or, at the least, you’re definitely staring at him. There’s a gravity behind his words, a seriousness that isn’t part of the persona you’ve been sold in the past. "But that meant getting a living person to marry me. Extorsion didn't work so I was just gonna, I dunno, just try to make you like me. But then," a hoarse laugh gets caught in the back of his throat, choked and manic. "But then you knew when I was bullshitting you! And you called me out when I pretended to be okay, and you were honest about shit I never expected you to be. Not gonna lie, you really pulled the rug out from under my dead ass. It's pretty hot."

You scoff at that but you're smiling. “Flatterer,” you mutter, your frustration mixed with shyness that you hadn’t heard since your first crushes in high school. You couldn't stop the joy from tugging at the corners of your lips. And the bastard had the nerve to look sheepish, his eyes darting back and forth between different pin-points of interest on your face, trying to read you with his nerves on full display. You look up the road, your home only a block away, before you carefully slips your hand into his. His bright green gaze follows the journey of your fingers and they curl around his, patches of color flaring on his undead features and soft tufts of pink suffusing his split-end tresses. This time you begin your journey hand in hand. 

“I won’t ask where you went or anything--”

“That’s probably for the best cause, scouts honor? Couldn’t tell ya where all I went.”

You frown up at the demon. “Can’t tell me, or won’t?”

“Nah, can’t tell ya where I went ‘cause I don’t remember,” he chuckles. When you continue to frown, clearly confused, he quickly admits, “Might’ve been a little too high to remember.”

You pull in a breath through clenched teeth. It’s hard to think of him that way. It’s also hard to think of him as a dead guy, too, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t dead. 

“Know where I ended up, though,” he tries to reassure you. “Might’ve landed back at the house I raised Hell in last time I tried all...this mess. Talked to some old friends. Dead friends,” he clarifies when he can see the question forming in your mind. “They kicked my ass.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Beetlejuice laughs and the sound warms you all the way through. “I meant more emotionally. They gave me an emotional ass kicking. That’s a thing, right?”

You think on it for a few seconds as you’re crossing the last intersection before you reach your front door. “Yeah, I’d say so.” There’s something about seeing the portal, illuminated by a single yellow hooded bulb, that makes you anxious. Not inexplicably. You’ll be entering your home with Beeltejuice at your side for the first time in a month. And in that month, while you’d been processing your anger and your grief, you were ultimately left with the loneliness of his absence to fall back into. But you weren’t lonely right now.

You wouldn’t be lonely  _ tonight _ .

You take a steadying breath as you fish your keys out of your back pocket, the tiny metal pieces jangling noisily and disrupting the quiet calm the two of you have built. For once you’re the jittery one. The ghost at your side is collected, even reserved, which meant you were the one seeming to be bursting with nervous energy. You get the keys in the lock and the door open before you fell to pieces from your nerves. If Beej noticed your shaking hands or awkward glances he didn’t say anything. 

Was that good? Was that bad? How were you supposed to know, it had been a month, who the hell knows what else had changed?

But you knew he had kissed you and it was becoming an all consuming distraction.

"Babes?" 

You turn and he's watching you warily. The demon is sporting the twitchy kind of smile that he wears to mask his concerns or worries. You wonder what emotions were playing across your face. You may not have color shifting hair or clothes to give you away, but you certainly didn't have a good poker face.

"Everything okay? Are you okay? I know there's still questions you have and, and yeah, y'know, things that need to be--" 

You open the door without breaking your gaze, unable to stop yourself from flicking between his own wide eyes stare and his mouth. You can feel your face heating up, the first blush of embarrassment spreading as your imagination plagues you with what could be. 

"You're right," you answer, throat feeling right and strained as you push into your apartment. The ghost hesitates at the threshold but you tug on his hand to encourage him. He follows you with cautious steps. "You're absolutely right, we've got a lot to talk about and we're not done talking, but…"

Beetlejuice shuts the door as you flip the light switch. The dim lamp on the other side of the room casts shadows across his face, hard lines where the amber glow meets darkness and makes his expression all the more intense. "But?"

You swallow down the lump of nerves that has balled in the back of your throat. "Beej?"

"Yeah?" The demon's voice is a gravely rumble, low and quiet in his chest. 

You take in a slow, calming breathe, in through the nose and back out again. "I'd really like it if you kissed me again."

There are a few terrifying beats of silence where nothing happens. Beetlejuice seems to be in stasis, frozen in time, and it's a wonder you can't hear gears grinding in his head. And you're about to play it off, panic returning, the words "got'cha" at the tip of your tongue when he crowds into the front of you. His lips crash against yours, the moment breathless. He breaks away, and oh, your met with the half lidded gaze of a man starved looking at his next meal. There's a tremor rattling his shoulders, his hands at his sides are shaking just as bad, and when you recognize his self-restraint it makes you bold. 

You want to text that conviction.

"Is that all?" You whisper, and are rewarded immediately with a low growl, the corners of his mouth tugging into a dangerous grin. You can see him struggling with himself, with his rampant desire, and it makes arousal, sticky sweet and warm, flow through your veins.

"Darlin'," his growled endearment makes you shiver. It’s a name he hasn’t used for you in the past. There’s something about the way he’s staring at you, like he might lose his tenuous control if you push him too hard "You should be careful what you wish for. Are you sure you know what you’re askin’ for? I mean, look’it me." He gestures very vaguely up and down the length of his body, over his duty overcoat and tattered striped suit. “Besides...wouldn’t be the most gentlemanly thing, y’know, since I made all this...mess, or whatever.”

“I can see you just fine,” you reply softly. Something like bravery, or maybe impulsiveness, flares a little and you reach out. You flatten your palm against his chest, the lack of heartbeat overshadowed by the rise and fall of his chest. Does he need to breathe deeply? Surely not. The idea that you imply had that effect on him makes you bold. “I would like it very much if you kissed me now.”

A cold hand clamps around the back of your neck faster than you thought possible just before he lays claim to your lips again. He growls, the sound dark and deep in the back of his throat, and when you answer him with a whimper he gives you the sinful sound again. Both of your hands ball into fists against his suit, your own little claim on his person now staked, just before you’re being spun in a tight circle. You don’t have time to wonder what his plan is. Hell, the thought doesn’t even register before you’re pinned bodily against the closed door to your home. 

The entire length of Beetlejuice is pressed to yours, hip to hip and chest to chest as he does his best to devour you. Grunts and groans escape him as he eagerly nips at your lower lip, a gasp escaping you as he tugs the rosy petal between his teeth. The fingers at the nape of your neck curl, blunt nails digging into your sensitive skin hard enough to raise goosebumps. You whimper against his mouth and he breaks the kiss, his voice in your ear and whispering “You should stop me, babes.” You shake your head and you feel his groan vibrating against your neck, he’s moving more deliberately now but everything feels foggy and electric and absolutely perfect. He mouths at the column of your neck, tongue and teeth sloppily leaving a trail until he reaches the tender point where your pulse rises to the surface. 

You buck against him, your knees buckling, as he sucks what you can only hope will be a lasting bruise to your neck. He moans against you, hips rolling into you and oh, his knee if pressing between your thighs. Fire races along your nerve endings and your body rocks against the knee between your legs of your own volition. Beetlejuice keens, the sound high pitched and whining, before he breaks away from your neck. The bruise is already forming if the sting is anything to go by. 

“Thought you weren’t interested in sex,” Beetlejuice teases, his knee canting upward. His thigh grinds against the apex of your legs and lust, molten and scorching and soul consuming, pools low in your belly. You arch your back and groan, the fine hairs at the back of your neck standing on end. Beetlejuice shivers, his free hand drifting to palm at the quickly growing bulge in his trousers. “Fuck babes, you’re gonna ruin me if you keep that up.”

“Good,” you growl before tugging him back down to you to recapture his mouth. It’s your turn to take control and he gladly give you the reins, his mouth instantly going pliant beneath your attention. Your tongue glides over his lower lip and the moan he gifts you is saccharine sweet and lewd. “We’re not done talking about what happened,” you pant against his mouth and he nods between frantic kisses. His hands have migrated to your hips and he holds you in place, his own gyrating slowly, needily. “Still gotta talk, but--”   
  


“Anything,” he pants desperately, hips twitching erradictly. “I’ll do anything, babes, you’re killin’ me darlin’, I want--”

You push against him backwards, the curled fists against his chest flattening as you walk him backwards into the apartment. 

But Beetlejuice has other plans, the glorious impatient bastard. With arms shaking he scoops you up around the waist clumsily and hoists you through the apartment. His muddy shoes leave a dirty trail across your beige carpet, tracks that led inevitably to the nearest horizontal object; your couch. As it stood you were too consumed with need, a hunger for him that had gone denied for far too long. It seemed you both were of the same mind. The demon was barely distracted with your weight in his arms. 

Beetlejuice falls back heavily and brings you down with him, on top of him. You don’t try to keep track of time. You two could spend minutes or hours or even days exploring the clothed expanse of each other, hands nervously tugging at clothes. He groans when you drag your hands down his chest, his nipples hard pebbles beneath his rumpled dress shirt, and you make a mental note. You grinds up into you and your mouth falls open in a gasp of surprise, and suddenly his tongue is thrusting shallowly into your mouth; a pantomime of the act that you are now wholly consumed with. He’s coming undone beneath you and you marvel at the way, even fully clothed, his pleasure soars higher and higher. He breaks the kiss, head tipping back and pressing into the sagging sofa cushions, a frustrated hiss slipping through clenched teeth.

“We gotta-- Hoo, shit, sweetheart, you’re gonna ruin me...” he rasps. When his eyes meet yours his pupils blow wide, the blackness consuming the pale green irises. You can only imagine what you look like to earn such a primal reaction. 

“Yeah?” You ask in return, your voice so husky you barely recognize it. A chuckle rolls through his chest like distant thunder.

“You have no idea, babes.” His head drops back with a huff and you watch as he tries to regain control of his raging libido. You can feel him, rock hard and pressed snugly against your hip. It dawns on you all at once:  _ He’s trying to be considerate, he’s trying to take things slow. _ The warmth that thought sends through you makes you want to ravage him all over again.

“Beej?” You whisper his name, your voice cracking embarrassingly around the single syllable. He’s still breathing deep beneath you, his chest rising and falling as he tries to rein himself in, and he responds only with a curious grunt. “I’m really happy you came home.”

The demon looks up at you then. His eyes slowly go wide. It’s as though he’s seeing you, truly seeing you, for the first time since your reunion less than an hour prior. He huffs a laugh. “Yeah?” he finally asks, voice thin with emotion. You nod and he laughs again. Slightly shaking hands tug you roughly down to lay against his chest. You waste no time, the bridge of your nose fitting snugly in the hollow where his throat meets his shoulder. You breathe him in and that scent that brought you nothing but unwanted memories flooded you; tobacco smoke and freshly turned soil, the slightly sweet scent of rotting maple leaves in the autumn rain. You feel his fingers dive into your hair and pull through the strands, the motion repeated over and over in a soothing ebb and flow. 

“I’m sorry I made you wait,” he whispers, his chest rumbling beneath you with each softly spoken word. The events of the day and the incredibly unexpected tryst you just shared drag you down, the weight heavy like a blanket, and sleep begins to pull you under. “But I’m home now, babes.”

The demon looks down when you give him no response. He finds you sleeping soundly, your body thrumming rhythmically with the deep slow paced breathing that slumber brings. He holds you a little tighter and stares at the popcorn ceiling, his emotions raging wildly, and tries to process everything that has happened. When he can’t, Beetlejuice decides it’s a hurdle he can jump tomorrow. He smiles into the darkness, at everything and nothing all at the same time.

“I’m really home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY, so some quick notes!
> 
> With the holidays and everything else going on I don't have an exact date that the next chapter will be up, but I will be working on it as much as I possibly can. Also! In the past few weeks I've been plotting out some new stories, so I will be creating those alongside this story. As such, there probably won't be 2 updates a week going forward, but I'm not entirely sure what my writing schedule will be. I'll be sure to keep you all posted!  
As was said at the top, there is a rating change coming for next chapter, so I hope y'all are ready.
> 
> As always, I appreciate all the comments and kudos! I'll see y'all soon!


	13. Reprieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while.
> 
> I'm sorry it's taken so long for me to update. A lot happened and I'm sorry about that. I hope y'all enjoy the new chapter, and while I can't give an exact date on the next one the chapter is started. 
> 
> Thank all of you so much for your support. I logged in to my Ao3 for the first time since pretty much January 2020 and was blown away by all the wonderful messages. I don't say this lightly, all of you brought me to tears and after the year of a mess my personal life has been it knocked me off my feet. Thank you, thank you one hundred times.
> 
> Enjoy this taste of what's to come.
> 
> And thank you to Kat (@beetlebitchywitch on tumblr) for beta!

Somewhere removed from the material plane, after you pass through an astral sea of wonders and terrors and everything you could possibly imagine, a person might find themselves in the land of the dead.    
  
The Netherworld.   
  
And this person would know right where they landed. The destination looks like a scuzzy version of Atlantic City or some haunted house version of Las Vegas. There’s litter basically everywhere, the gutters lined with all manner of abomination, and the slightest sour scent of vomit wafts with each scorching hot breeze. Neon signs blink “OPEN” and “GIRLS” and “LIQUOR” in red and yellow synchronicity. There’s the discordant squeal of tires and screech of monster. And somewhere, deep in the heart of the city in a strip club, is a deeply annoyed succubus.   
  
Bellatrix anxiously taps the toe of her stiletto against the shiny tiled floor, double time to the beat that thumps so loudly the denizens of Hell can feel it in their empty chests. She holds a human mobile phone in her hand, her thumb and long, well manicured nail tapping in time with her foot against the smooth glass surface. She’s waiting for a signal, for a sign, and yes she absolutely abhors that it’s coming through this stupid little brick of breather tech.    
  
But her brother seemed to have taken a liking to more than one inconvenient piece of garbage from the living world. And he was taking for-fucking-ever to respond.   
  
Bellatrix’s lackeys sway and dance in time with the music, collecting bills when they were offered and fragments of lost souls when they had nothing else left to give. It’s a good night for business. The holiday season isn’t celebrated, but scars from one’s life could run deep enough that, even in Hell, a soul runs to find solace in places they shouldn’t.   
  
Christmas was always so damn lucrative.   
  
But that doesn’t sway her mood, not an inch. She’s pacing and waiting and growing more and more impatient by the second. Finally, the brick in her hand buzzes against her palm and the bright blue screen flares to life. Two words burn hatefully back at her: “He’s back.”   
  
The very air surrounding the demoness sizzles and pops as her anger begins to build uncontrollably, piling on top of itself tenfold and making the already scorching temperature rise. Another text follows: “We go my way now. Understood?”   
  
The brick of plastic and glass and flimsy metal creaks in her hand, a hairline crack splitting the screen diagonally with the force of her rage. Bellatrix doesn’t bother texting back, doesn’t bother saying a word. She knows her brother will hear the answer in her silence loud and clear. She’ll go his way, cooperate and fall in line as she is expected to. Her humiliation manifests scorch marks against the marble floor from her red bottom stiletto heels.   
  
She is going to make Lawrence Beetlejuice Shaggoth regret every minute of his miserable existence from here on out.   
  


* * *

  
  
Beetlejuice stares at your popcorn ceiling and doesn’t dare to move a muscle. Neither of you have a mind to move from the sofa you had so unceremoniously collapsed onto, and sometime in the past half hour you had completely passed out laying across his chest. You’d thankfully kicked off you work shoes at some point so his shins were spared the discomfort of being dug into by well worn, filthy rubber soles. Not that he would have said a damn thing, not when you were sprawled across his chest and laying claim in your sleep just like you had before all this mess happened.    
  
He couldn’t stop smiling.   
  
Beetlejuice reflects on what the two of you had managed to talk about before...well, before you’d nearly left him a fully clothed, ruined mess of an undead man. Just the thought of it is enough to make his body stir, a twitch that has him chiding himself silently;  _ “Down boy, plenty of time for that later.”  _   
  
He’d been gone a month. He’d never meant to be gone that long...but, he supposes, when going on a bender you don’t mean to do anything that isn’t actively destructive. And then again, if he hadn’t landed on the Maitland’s doorstep, he may never have thought to come back at all. You had banished him and it hurt, and while you didn’t deserve to be hurt in return, it didn’t change what had happened. Beetlejuice knows you both have to move past it, but how? It feels impossible and huge and scary like the monsters that would hide in children’s closets.   
  
But then you stir against his chest, a beautiful sound akin to a purr escaping you as you settle yourself more snugly between his parted legs. You had seemed to get past it easily enough; Easily enough that he’s holding you now, your cheek mushed into his chest and a small puddle of drool pooling into his tattered dress shirt. Beetlejuice tentatively gives in to the desire he had had resisted so many times before and rakes his fingers through your hair. The strands are as soft as he imagined, the exact opposite of the wiry mess on top of his head.    
  
When he holds you like this, those impossible, huge, scary things shrink into the background.   
  
With the silence as company and the weight of your body laid out against his, his mind returns to wandering. Alright, so you didn’t know who sent the video, which meant the list was...indescribably long for who could have sent it. Beetlejuice has more than his fair share of enemies and he’s earned every damn one of them, thank you very much, but that didn’t explain why Bellatrix had set up this little trap for him. All things considered, nothing truly awful had happened ( _ yet _ , he was quick to clarify with himself) and you’d been completely alone and undefended for a full month. You hadn’t mentioned a smokin’ hot new girlfriend. He makes a mental note to ask when you wake up, but he still doubts you’d be so hale and hearty if Bellatrix had bewitched you and the succubus began to feed in earnest.    
  
So then what was the purpose?   
  
Well, the demon muses with his fingers twining and slowly tangling into your hair, whatever had happened most certainly did keep Beetlejuice from being by your side. He was very effectively removed from the picture, and in a way that played on both of your fears and insecurities. Bellatrix was many, many things, but she was not some conniving mastermind who would go to any length to mentally tear someone down outside of insults just to get them out of her way.   
  
That takes one single, solitary name off of a mile long list of potential enemies who would do anything to hurt him. Perfect.   
  
The rolodex of adversaries is flipped through and quickly categorized; those who knew Trixie, those who didn’t, and those who had enough brains and was enough of a sadist to help the succubus pull off her little stunt. Looking back, she had been more powerful than he’d ever known her to be before. She’d kept him captive with her strength of will alone. That was no small feat. The only demon who had ever done such a thing before was his mother, although Beetlejuice supposed she couldn’t be the only demon who had such an indomitable will.   
  
Somewhere along the line, you stir against him again; your midsection presses flush and back arches with feline grace. The demon can’t help himself, electric green eyes following the line of your spine hidden by layers of clothes. The valley that led down from your shoulders blades looks to be the perfect fit for his hands. The demon can imagine his hands gripping you there, how his fingers would dimple your skin and maybe more with just the right amount of pressure. And that valley led to another great asset of yours (all pun intended) which happens to sway from side to side as you slowly return to the land of the living and shift restlessly against him.   
  
_ Oh fuck. _   
  
You stretch again and your body grinds against his and Beetlejuice’s brain screeches to a halt. Oh fuck, oh no, you feel so good and all you’re doing is wiggling in your sleep. But what little trust had been rebuilt could be shattered to smithereens if he loses his cool now. Not to mention he had plans now. Oh yes, between all the actually important things he’d been pondering on his night watch while you slept, other things had flitted through his mind. Images of you writhing, mouth open, eyes rolling back as he subjected your body to the desires you had both neglected. But that was not right now.   
  
It takes an amount of self control the demon was unaccustomed to, but he manages to pull his hands away from you. They hover just over that valley where he knows they would fit so nicely, fingers trembling with restraint as you rock against him again. You tear a strangled sound from him. It’s a mess, caught somewhere between a whine and a growl, just like the rest of him when it came to you.   
  
“You’re really tryin’ to get me in trouble, hotstuff,” he whispers between clenched teeth. You hum a question that he can’t hear, the sound of his pulse thumping in his ears growing loud as he fights his baser instincts. A breath rushes out of him as you finally look up from where you’re cuddled against his chest, and you have the nerve to look confused. Playing cute with him pinned and, now, rock hard? It makes him want you all the more.   
  
“Beej…?” You mumble as you slowly sit up and rub the last remnants of sleep from your eyes. “What’s wrong?”   
  
“Nothin’,” Beetlejuice answers you with a voice just a fraction too thin to be casual. If you keep wiggling like that he’ll embarrass himself and make a mess of his already messy suit. “Not a thing babes, j-just, ahh-- Watch the goods, yeah?”   
  
Maybe it’s because he brought attention to it, or maybe it’s the subtle shift of your weight as you sit upright in his lap, but he feels his member twitch. You must feel it too because your face goes redder than the fire’s of Hell. You fly off of his lap at impressive speeds and he immediately misses the pressure of your body against his, but what little control he has is grateful for the reprieve. You were a temptation already, but pressed so intimately against him...it was a lot to ask a demon to resist temptation.   
  
You scurry off to the bathroom without a word (you seemed to understand the awkwardness that was about to ensue and avoided completely) and Beetlejuice is left alone to collect himself. At least he would have if he had an ounce of self control. His mind wanders to the night before, to the sounds you made, to the weight and warmth of you against his chest. His grip on control has been tenuous, slipping with each whimper, or when your hips rocked needily against him, chasing little flashes of pleasure against his thigh--   
  
It’s a lot to ask a demon to resist temptation, and Beetlejuice isn’t sure how much longer he could hold out.   
  
Across the room, Beetlejuice hears the muffled squeak of old metal and then the splash of your shower kicking on. The demon tips his head back and whines, his own need unabated and unattended. Any effort to try and solve the mystery of whose shit-list he’s on is abandoned in favor of his need. Fantasies play through the theater of his mind that can’t go ignored for a second longer, not when he hasn’t thought about his body or it’s needs beyond being blackout drunk or high off his tits for the last month.    
  
The demon grinds the palm of one of his hands against the stiffness in his trousers, the friction of the fabric irritating and exhilarating all at the same time. A gasp goes rushing out of his lungs, and he hears the telltale jingle of cheap plastic shower rings as you pull the curtain open and then closed. He can see you in his mind's eye, all soft skin and curves and dripping wet under the spray of warm water.    
  
Oh fuck, your hands would be moving over that expanse of skin, where he could imagine his own--   
  
Beetlejuice impatiently flicks open his belt and then the button of his pants before shoving his hand past the waist band. The demon takes himself in hand and a sigh rattles out of him, eyes rolling back and then closed. He can see you perfectly, can imagine the path your hands would make, over your chest and dipping down lower, lower…   
  
The demon lasts less than three minutes. Beetlejuice spills over in his hand, the other balled into a fist and pressed into his mouth to muffle the groan he just can’t stop. His ecstasy is accompanied by the beautiful thought of your fingers finding the apex of your legs and finding your own completion with your back arching against the old tile walls and all manner of gorgeous sounds pouring from that kissable mouth of yours.    
  
The demon lays on your couch, hand and trousers and all of him in general an absolute mess, and tries to catch a breath his undead body doesn’t need. The shower is still running and Beetlejuice thanks his own star for that embarrassingly short performance being a one man show.    
  
With a snap of his fingers the mess is gone, feeling too bone weary to get up and take care of the mess the old fashioned way. What’s the point of having otherworldly powers if you didn’t use them, right? The image he’d created of you flashes through his mind again; face flushed, eyes half shut and face love drunk as you shamelessly take your pleasure into your own hands.   
  
He was going to give into temptation sooner or later. And he was absolutely going to ruin you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. Can't give an exact date when the next chapter will be ready, but I am currently working on it. Thanks so much!

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this, reader! I'll hopefully get another chapter up soon.


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